The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Уильям Шекспир

so far hath discretion fought with nature

          That we with wisest sorrow think on him

          Together with remembrance of ourselves.

          Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen,

          Th' imperial jointress to this warlike state,

          Have we, as 'twere with a defeated joy,

          With an auspicious, and a dropping eye,

          With mirth in funeral, and with dirge in marriage,

          In equal scale weighing delight and dole,

          Taken to wife; nor have we herein barr'd

          Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone

          With this affair along. For all, our thanks.

          Now follows, that you know, young Fortinbras,

          Holding a weak supposal of our worth,

          Or thinking by our late dear brother's death

          Our state to be disjoint and out of frame,

          Colleagued with this dream of his advantage,

          He hath not fail'd to pester us with message

          Importing the surrender of those lands

          Lost by his father, with all bands of law,

          To our most valiant brother. So much for him.

          Now for ourself and for this time of meeting.

          Thus much the business is: we have here writ

          To Norway, uncle of young Fortinbras,

          Who, impotent and bedrid, scarcely hears

          Of this his nephew's purpose, to suppress

          His further gait herein, in that the levies,

          The lists, and full proportions are all made

          Out of his subject; and we here dispatch

          You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltemand,

          For bearers of this greeting to old Norway,

          Giving to you no further personal power

          To business with the King, more than the scope

          Of these dilated articles allow. [Gives a paper.]

          Farewell, and let your haste commend your duty.

        Cor., Volt. In that, and all things, will we show our duty.

        King. We doubt it nothing. Heartily farewell.

Exeunt Voltemand and Cornelius

          And now, Laertes, what's the news with you?

          You told us of some suit. What is't, Laertes?

          You cannot speak of reason to the Dane

          And lose your voice. What wouldst thou beg, Laertes,

          That shall not be my offer, not thy asking?

          The head is not more native to the heart,

          The hand more instrumental to the mouth,

          Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father.

          What wouldst thou have, Laertes?

        Laer. My dread lord,

          Your leave and favour to return to France;

          From whence though willingly I came to Denmark

          To show my duty in your coronation,

          Yet now I must confess, that duty done,

          My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France

          And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon.

        King. Have you your father's leave? What says Polonius?

        Pol. He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave

          By laboursome petition, and at last

          Upon his will I seal'd my hard consent.

          I do beseech you give him leave to go.

        King. Take thy fair hour, Laertes. Time be thine,

          And thy best graces spend it at thy will!

          But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son-

        Ham. [aside] A little more than kin, and less than kind!

        King. How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

        Ham. Not so, my lord. I am too much i' th' sun.

        Queen. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off,

          And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.

          Do not for ever with thy vailed lids

          Seek for thy noble father in the dust.

          Thou know'st 'tis common. All that lives must die,

          Passing through nature to eternity.

        Ham. Ay, madam, it is common.

        Queen. If it be,

          Why seems it so particular with thee?

        Ham. Seems, madam, Nay, it is. I know not 'seems.'

          'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,

          Nor customary suits of solemn black,

          Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath,

          No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,

          Nor the dejected havior of the visage,

          Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,

          'That can denote me truly. These indeed seem,

          For they are actions that a man might play;

          But I have that within which passeth show-

          These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

        King. 'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet,

          To give these mourning duties to your father;

          But you must know, your father lost a father;

          That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound

          In filial obligation for some term

          To do obsequious sorrow. But to persever

          In obstinate condolement is a course

          Of impious stubbornness. 'Tis unmanly grief;

          It shows a will most incorrect to heaven,

          A heart unfortified, a mind impatient,

          An understanding simple and unschool'd;

          For what we know must be, and is as common

          As any the most vulgar thing to sense,

          Why should we in our peevish opposition

          Take it to heart? Fie! 'tis a fault to heaven,

          A fault against the dead, a fault to nature,

          To reason most absurd, whose common theme

          Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried,

          From the