Tragedies: The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Romeo and Juliet. Macbeth / Трагедии: Трагедия Гамлета, принца Датского. Ромео и Джульетта. Макбет. Уильям Шекспир

above all: to thine own self be true;

      And it must follow, as the night the day,

      Thou canst not then be false to any man.

      Farewell: my blessing season this in thee.

      LAERTES.

      Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.

      POLONIUS.

      The time invites you; go, your servants tend.

      LAERTES.

      Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well

      What I have said to you.

      OPHELIA.

      ’Tis in my memory lock’d,

      And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

      LAERTES.

      Farewell.

      [Exit.]

      POLONIUS.

      What is’t, Ophelia, he hath said to you?

      OPHELIA.

      So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.

      POLONIUS.

      Marry, well bethought:

      ’Tis told me he hath very oft of late

      Given private time to you; and you yourself

      Have of your audience been most free and bounteous.

      If it be so, – as so ’tis put on me,

      And that in way of caution, – I must tell you

      You do not understand yourself so clearly

      As it behoves my daughter and your honour.

      What is between you? Give me up the truth.

      OPHELIA.

      He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders

      Of his affection to me.

      POLONIUS.

      Affection! Pooh! You speak like a green girl,

      Unsifted in such perilous circumstance.

      Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?

      OPHELIA.

      I do not know, my lord, what I should think.

      POLONIUS.

      Marry, I’ll teach you; think yourself a baby;

      That you have ta’en these tenders for true pay,

      Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly;

      Or, – not to crack the wind of the poor phrase,

      Roaming it thus, – you’ll tender me a fool.

      OPHELIA.

      My lord, he hath importun’d me with love

      In honourable fashion.

      POLONIUS.

      Ay, fashion you may call it; go to, go to.

      OPHELIA.

      And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord,

      With almost all the holy vows of heaven.

      POLONIUS.

      Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know,

      When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul

      Lends the tongue vows: these blazes, daughter,

      Giving more light than heat, extinct in both,

      Even in their promise, as it is a-making,

      You must not take for fire. From this time

      Be something scanter of your maiden presence;

      Set your entreatments at a higher rate

      Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet,

      Believe so much in him that he is young;

      And with a larger tether may he walk

      Than may be given you. In few, Ophelia,

      Do not believe his vows; for they are brokers,

      Not of that dye which their investments show,

      But mere implorators of unholy suits,

      Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds,

      The better to beguile. This is for all.

      I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth

      Have you so slander any moment leisure

      As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet.

      Look to’t, I charge you; come your ways.

      OPHELIA.

      I shall obey, my lord.

      [Exeunt.]

      Scene IV

The platform.

      Enter Hamlet, Horatio and Marcellus.

      HAMLET.

      The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.

      HORATIO.

      It is a nipping and an eager air.

      HAMLET.

      What hour now?

      HORATIO.

      I think it lacks of twelve.

      MARCELLUS.

      No, it is struck.

      HORATIO.

      Indeed? I heard it not. It then draws near the season

      Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.

      [A flourish of trumpets, and ordnance shot off within.]

      What does this mean, my lord?

      HAMLET.

      The King doth wake tonight and takes his rouse,

      Keeps wassail, and the swaggering upspring reels;

      And as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,

      The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out

      The triumph of his pledge.

      HORATIO.

      Is it a custom?

      HAMLET.

      Ay marry is’t;

      And to my mind, though I am native here,

      And to the manner born, it is a custom

      More honour’d in the breach than the observance.

      This heavy-headed revel east and west

      Makes us traduc’d and tax’d of other nations:

      They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase

      Soil our addition; and indeed it takes

      From our achievements, though perform’d at height,

      The pith and marrow of our attribute.

      So oft it chances in particular men

      That for some vicious mole of nature in them,

      As in their birth, wherein they are not guilty,

      Since nature cannot choose his origin,

      By their o’ergrowth of some complexion,

      Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason;

      Or by some habit, that too much o’erleavens

      The