Hamlet

I have of late, but wherefore I know not,

lost all my mirth.

What a piece of work is a man?

How noble in reason?

How infinite in faculties and form and moving?

How express and admirable in action?

How like an angel in apprehension? How like a god?

The beauty of the world,

the paragon of animals,

and yet, to me...

What is this quintessence of dust?

Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death

our memory be green,

and that it us befitted to bear our heart in grief

and our whole kingdom to be contracted

in one brow of woe.

Yet 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,

the imperial jointress to this warlike state,

have we, as 'twere with a defeated joy...

With an auspicious and 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 barred 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 the dream of his advantage,

he hath not failed to pester us with message,

importing the surrender of those lands

lost by his father.

With all bond of law, to our most valiant brother.

So much for him.

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

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?

My dread lord, your leave and favor to return to France;

From whence though willingly I come to show my duty in your coronation,

now, I must confess, that duty done,

my thoughts and wishes bend again toward France.

- Have you your father's leave? - What says Polonius?

He has, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave

by laboursome petition, and at last

upon his will I sealed my hard consent.

I do beseech you, give him leave to go.

Take thy fair hour, Laertes; Time be thine,

and thy best grace spend it at thy will!

My cousin Hamlet,

and my son...

How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

Hamlet...

cast thy nighted color off,

and let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.

Do not forever 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.

Ay, madam, it is common.

If it be, why seems it so particular with thee?

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 forced breath.

No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,

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.

'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet,

to give these mourning duties to your father.

But that father lost, lost his,

and the survivor bound in filial obligation for some term

to do obsequious sorrow.

But to persevere in obdurate condolement

is a course of impious stubbornness;

'Tis an unmanly grief.

It shows a will most incorrect to heaven.

A heart unfortified, a mind impatient.

For your intent on going back to school in Wittenberg,

it is most retrograde to our desire,

and we beseech you, bend you

to remain here in the care and comfort of our eye.

Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet.

Stay with us,

go not to Wittenberg.

I shall in all my best obey you, madam.

That this too, too solid flesh would melt,

thaw, and resolve itself into a dew.

Or that the Everlasting had not fixed his canon 'gainst self-slaughter.

God.

God. How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable

seem to me all the uses of this world.

'Tis an unweeded garden that grows to seed.

Things rank and gross in nature possess it merely.

That it should come to this!

But two months dead, nay, not so much, not two.

So excellent a king that was, to this,

Hyperion to a satyr.

So loving to my mother that he might not beteem the winds of heaven

visit her face too roughly.

Why, she would hang on him, as if increase of appetite

had grown by what it fed on.

And yet, within a month...

I may not think on it.

Frailty, thy name is woman.

A little month

or ere these shoes were old with which she followed my poor father's body

like Niobe, all tears... Why she, even she...

God!

A beast that wants discourse of reason would have mourned longer.

Married with my uncle, my father's brothe, r

but no more like my father than I to Hercules.

Within a month.

Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears

had left the flushing in her galled eyes... she married.

Most wicked speed,

to post with such dexterity to incestuous sheets!

It is not nor it cannot come to good.

But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

What make you from Wittenberg, Marcellus?

- My good lord. - I'm very glad to see you.

Good even, sir.

But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?

A truant disposition, good my lord.

What is your affair in Elsinore?

My lord, I came to see your father's funeral.

I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow student,

I think it was to see my mother's wedding.

Indeed, my lord, it followed hard upon.

Thrift, thrift, Horatio.

The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven

or ever I had seen that day, Horatio.

My father...

methinks I see my father.

Where, my lord?

In my mind's eye.

I saw him once, he was a goodly king.

He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.

I think I saw him...

yester-night.

Saw? Who?

My lord, the king. Your father.

The king my father.

Season your admiration for a while

with an attent ear, till I may deliver

upon the witness of these gentlemen

this marvel to you.

In the dead waste in middle of the night,

the apparition comes.

Where was this?

My lord, upon the platform where we watched.

'Tis here.

Did you not speak to it?

My lord, I did.

But answer made it none.

Yet once methought it lifted up its head and did address itself to motion

like as it would speak.

Stay, illusion.

If thou hast any sound or use of voice,

speak to me.

It is offended.

If there be any good thing to be done,

that may to thee do ease and grace to me,

speak to me.

Speak, speak!

I charge thee, speak.

'Tis very strange.

As I do live, my lord, 'tis true.

And we did think it writ down in our duty

to let you know of it.

Indeed, indeed.

But this troubles me.

- Hold you the watch again tonight? - I do, my lord.

What looked he...

frowningly?

A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.

- And fixed his eyes upon you? - Most constantly.

I would I had been there.

It would have much amazed you.

I will watch tonight.

I'll speak to it, though Hell itself should gape and bid me hold my peace.

And I pray you all, if you have hitherto concealed this sight,

let it be tenable in your silence still.

And whatsoever else shall hap tonight, give it an...

understanding, but no tongue.

I will require your loves.