Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 2

Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother’s death The memory be green, and that it us befitted To bear our hearts 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, Th’imperial jointress to this warlike state, Have we, as ’twere with a defeated joy, With one auspicious and one 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 bonds 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 bed-rid, 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. Farewell; and let your haste commend your duty.

Although the memory of our dear brother Hamlet's death is still fresh, and it was right for us to carry grief in our hearts and for our whole kingdom to be drawn together into one frown of sorrow, still good judgement has struggled with feeling so far that we now think of him with the wisest sort of sorrow, while also remembering ourselves. And so the woman who was once my sister and is now our queen, the imperial widow who shares the rule of this warlike state, we have taken as our wife—with a joy, as it were, that has been defeated, with one eye bright and the other weeping, with cheerfulness at a funeral and a funeral song at a wedding, weighing pleasure and grief in equal scales. In this we have not shut out your better judgements, which have gone along freely with the matter. For everything, our thanks. Next, as you know, young Fortinbras, having a low opinion of our worth, or thinking that with our late dear brother's death our state has come apart and fallen out of order, and being allied with this dream of his own advantage, has not failed to plague us with messages demanding the surrender of those lands his father lost, by every legal bond, to our most valiant brother. So much for him. Now for ourself and for this meeting. This is the business: we have written here to Norway, young Fortinbras's uncle, who, feeble and confined to his bed, has barely heard of his nephew's plan, asking him to stop his going any further in this, since the troops, the muster-rolls, and the full supplies are all raised from his own subjects. And we send you here, good Cornelius, and you, Voltemand, as bearers of this greeting to old Norway, giving you no further personal authority to deal with the King than the limits of these detailed articles allow. Farewell, and let your speed show your loyalty.

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

In that, and in all things, we will show our loyalty.

We doubt it nothing: heartily farewell.

We have no doubt of it at all. A warm farewell.

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?

And now, Laertes, what news do you have? You told us of some request. What is it, Laertes? You cannot make a reasonable request to the King of Denmark and waste your words. What could you ask for, Laertes, that I would not offer before you asked? The head is no more naturally joined to the heart, the hand no more the mouth's servant, than the throne of Denmark is to your father. What do you want, Laertes?

Dread my 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.

My feared lord, your permission and kind consent to return to France. I came from there to Denmark willingly enough, to show my duty at your coronation; but now, I must admit, that duty being done, my thoughts and wishes turn back towards France, and bow before your gracious permission and pardon.

Have you your father’s leave? What says Polonius?

Do you have your father's permission? What does Polonius say?

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.

He has, my lord. He wrung my reluctant permission out of me with hard pleading, and in the end I set my seal on his wish with my grudging consent. I beg you, give him leave to go.

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—

Make the most of your good time, Laertes; the time is yours, and may your finest qualities spend it as you please. But now, my nephew Hamlet, and my son—

[Aside.] A little more than kin, and less than kind.

[Aside.] A bit too closely related, and not natural at all.

How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

How is it that the clouds are still hanging over you?

Not so, my lord, I am too much i’ the sun.

Not so, my lord. I'm out in too much sun.

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.

Good Hamlet, throw off that night-black colour, and let your eye look on Denmark like a friend. Do not go on for ever with lowered eyelids, looking for your noble father in the dust. You know it is common: everything that lives must die, passing through nature into eternity.

Ay, madam, it is common.

Yes, madam, it is common.

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

If it is, why does it seem so special in your case?

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 haviour of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shows 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.

Seem, madam! No, it is. I know nothing of seeming. It is not only my ink-black cloak, good mother, nor the usual outfits of solemn black, nor the gusty sighing of forced breath, no, nor the plentiful river in the eye, nor the downcast look of the face, along with all the forms, moods and displays of grief, that can truly show what I am. Those things indeed only seem, for they are actions a man could act out. But I have something inside me that goes beyond display; these are merely grief's costumes and clothes.

’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 persevere 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 first corse till he that died today, ‘This must be so.’ We pray you throw to earth This unprevailing woe, and think of us As of a father; for let the world take note You are the most immediate to our throne, And with no less nobility of love Than that which dearest father bears his son Do I impart toward you. For your intent In going back to school in Wittenberg, It is most retrograde to our desire: And we beseech you bend you to remain Here in the cheer and comfort of our eye, Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.

It is sweet and praiseworthy in your nature, Hamlet, to pay these duties of mourning to your father. But you must realise that your father lost a father; that lost father lost his; and the one left alive is bound by a son's duty to mourn dutifully for a certain time. But to keep on in stubborn grieving is a course of ungodly obstinacy. It is unmanly grief. It shows a will very much out of line with heaven, a heart with no defences, an impatient mind, an understanding that is simple and untaught. Since we know a thing must happen, and that it is as ordinary as the commonest thing we can perceive, why should we in our sulky resistance take it so hard? Shame on it—it is an offence against heaven, an offence against the dead, an offence against nature, and utterly absurd to reason, whose usual subject is the death of fathers, and which has always cried, from the first corpse until the man who died today, 'This must be so.' We beg you to throw this useless grief to the ground and to think of us as a father; for let the world take note, you are the one who stands nearest to our throne, and I give you love no less noble than that which the fondest father feels for his son. As for your plan of going back to your studies in Wittenberg, it runs completely against our wish, and we beg you to bring yourself to stay here, in the cheer and comfort of our sight, our chief courtier, our nephew, and our son.

Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet. I pray thee stay with us; go not to Wittenberg.

Do not let your mother's prayers go to waste, Hamlet. I beg you, stay with us; do not go to Wittenberg.

I shall in all my best obey you, madam.

I shall obey you as well as I possibly can, madam.

Why, ’tis a loving and a fair reply. Be as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come; This gentle and unforc’d accord of Hamlet Sits smiling to my heart; in grace whereof, No jocund health that Denmark drinks today But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell, And the King’s rouse the heaven shall bruit again, Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away.

Why, that is a loving and a fine reply. Be as I am myself here in Denmark. Madam, come. This gentle, unforced agreement of Hamlet's sits smiling in my heart; and to honour it, there shall not be a single merry toast that Denmark drinks today but the great cannon will announce it to the clouds, and the heavens will echo the King's drinking, answering back the thunder of the earth. Come along.

O that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d His canon ’gainst self-slaughter. O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on’t! Oh fie! ’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. Heaven and earth! Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on; and yet, within a month— Let me not think on’t—Frailty, thy name is woman! A little month, or ere those shoes were old With which she followed my poor father’s body Like Niobe, all tears.—Why she, even she— O God! A beast that wants discourse of reason Would have mourn’d longer,—married with mine uncle, My father’s brother; 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. O 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.

Oh, if only this too, too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and dissolve itself into dew! Or if only the Everlasting had not set his law against killing oneself. Oh God! Oh God! How tiring, stale, flat and worthless all the ways of this world seem to me! Shame on it! Oh, shame! It is a garden nobody has weeded, running to seed; things coarse and foul by nature possess it completely. That it should come to this! Dead only two months—no, not even that, not two. So fine a king—compared with this one, Hyperion beside a satyr—and so loving to my mother that he would not allow the winds of heaven to touch her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! Must I remember? Why, she would cling to him as if her appetite had only grown by what it fed on; and yet, within a month—let me not think about it—Frailty, your name is woman! A short month, before the shoes were even worn out in which she walked behind my poor father's body, crying like Niobe, all tears—why she, even she—oh God! An animal that has no power of reasoning would have mourned longer—married to my uncle, my father's brother, but no more like my father than I am like Hercules. Within a month, before the salt of her utterly unrighteous tears had stopped stinging her red, sore eyes, she married. Oh, most wicked haste, to rush with such nimbleness to incestuous sheets! It is not good, and it cannot come to good. But break, my heart, for I must keep quiet.

Hail to your lordship!

Greetings to your lordship!

I am glad to see you well: Horatio, or I do forget myself.

I am glad to see you well. Horatio—or I am forgetting who I am.

The same, my lord, And your poor servant ever.

The same, my lord, and always your poor servant.

Sir, my good friend; I’ll change that name with you: And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?— Marcellus?

Sir, my good friend—I'll swap that title with you. And what are you doing away from Wittenberg, Horatio?—Marcellus?

My good lord.

My good lord.

I am very glad to see you.—Good even, sir.— But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?

I am very glad to see you.—Good evening, sir.—But honestly, what are you doing away from Wittenberg?

A truant disposition, good my lord.

A tendency to play truant, my good lord.

I would not hear your enemy say so; Nor shall you do my ear that violence, To make it truster of your own report Against yourself. I know you are no truant. But what is your affair in Elsinore? We’ll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.

I would not let your enemy say that, and you shall not do my ear the violence of making it believe your own report against yourself. I know you are no truant. But what is your business in Elsinore? We'll teach you to drink deeply before you leave.

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

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

I prithee do not mock me, fellow-student. I think it was to see my mother’s wedding.

Please don't mock me, fellow student. I think it was to see my mother's wedding.

Indeed, my lord, it follow’d hard upon.

True, my lord, it followed very soon after.

Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak’d 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.

Economy, economy, Horatio! The baked meats from the funeral served, cold, for the wedding tables. I wish I had met my worst enemy in heaven rather than ever live to see that day, Horatio. My father—I think I see my father.

Where, my lord?

Where, my lord?

In my mind’s eye, Horatio.

In my mind's eye, Horatio.

I saw him once; he was a goodly king.

I saw him once; he was a fine king.

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

He was a man, taking him all in all; I shall never see anyone like him again.

My lord, I think I saw him yesternight.

My lord, I think I saw him last night.

Saw? Who?

Saw? Who?

My lord, the King your father.

My lord, the King your father.

The King my 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.

Hold back your astonishment for a while and listen carefully, until I can tell you this wonder, with these gentlemen as witnesses.

For God’s love let me hear.

For the love of God, let me hear it.

Two nights together had these gentlemen, Marcellus and Barnardo, on their watch In the dead waste and middle of the night, Been thus encounter’d. A figure like your father, Armed at point exactly, cap-à-pie, Appears before them, and with solemn march Goes slow and stately by them: thrice he walk’d By their oppress’d and fear-surprised eyes, Within his truncheon’s length; whilst they, distill’d Almost to jelly with the act of fear, Stand dumb, and speak not to him. This to me In dreadful secrecy impart they did, And I with them the third night kept the watch, Where, as they had deliver’d, both in time, Form of the thing, each word made true and good, The apparition comes. I knew your father; These hands are not more like.

Two nights in a row these gentlemen, Marcellus and Barnardo, while on watch in the dead emptiness of the middle of the night, met with this. A figure like your father, armed exactly as he should be, from head to foot, appears in front of them, and with a solemn march goes slowly and stately past them. Three times he walked by their crushed and fear-stricken eyes, within the length of his baton, while they, melted almost to jelly by the effect of fear, stand speechless and say nothing to him. They told me this in terrified secrecy, and on the third night I kept the watch with them, and there, just as they had described—in the same hour, the same shape of the thing, every word proved true and accurate—the apparition comes. I knew your father; these two hands are no more alike than they were.

But where was this?

But where was this?

My lord, upon the platform where we watch.

My lord, up on the platform where we keep watch.

Did you not speak to it?

Didn't you speak to it?

My lord, I did; But answer made it none: yet once methought It lifted up it head, and did address Itself to motion, like as it would speak. But even then the morning cock crew loud, And at the sound it shrunk in haste away, And vanish’d from our sight.

My lord, I did, but it gave no answer. Yet once I thought it lifted up its head and moved as if it were about to speak. But just then the morning cock crowed loudly, and at the sound it shrank quickly away and vanished from our sight.

’Tis very strange.

That is very strange.

As I do live, my honour’d lord, ’tis true; And we did think it writ down in our duty To let you know of it.

As I live, my honoured lord, it is true, and we thought it was part of our duty to let you know of it.

Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. Hold you the watch tonight?

Indeed, indeed, gentlemen, but this troubles me. Are you on watch tonight?

We do, my lord.

We are, my lord.

Arm’d, say you?

Armed, you say?

Both. Arm’d, my lord.

Both. Armed, my lord.

From top to toe?

From head to foot?

My lord, from head to foot.

My lord, from head to foot.

Then saw you not his face?

Then you didn't see his face?

O yes, my lord, he wore his beaver up.

Oh yes, my lord, he wore his visor lifted up.

What, look’d he frowningly?

What, did he look angry?

A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.

His face showed more sorrow than anger.

Pale, or red?

Pale, or flushed?

Nay, very pale.

No, very pale.

And fix’d his eyes upon you?

And he kept his eyes fixed on you?

Most constantly.

Without looking away.

I would I had been there.

I wish I had been there.

It would have much amaz’d you.

It would have astonished you.

Very like, very like. Stay’d it long?

Very likely, very likely. Did it stay long?

While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.

As long as it would take someone to count to a hundred at a moderate pace.

Longer, longer.

Longer, longer.

Not when I saw’t.

Not when I saw it.

His beard was grizzled, no?

His beard was grey-streaked, wasn't it?

It was, as I have seen it in his life, A sable silver’d.

It was, just as I saw it when he was alive: black touched with silver.

I will watch tonight; Perchance ’twill walk again.

I'll keep watch tonight. It may be that it will walk again.

I warrant you it will.

I promise you it will.

If it assume my noble father’s person, I’ll speak to it, though hell itself should gape And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, If you have hitherto conceal’d 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 requite your loves. So, fare ye well. Upon the platform ’twixt eleven and twelve, I’ll visit you.

If it takes on the shape of my noble father, I'll speak to it, even if hell itself should open wide and order me to be quiet. I ask you all: if you have kept this sight secret until now, keep holding it in your silence; and whatever else may happen tonight, take it in with your minds, but say nothing. I'll repay your kindness. So, goodbye. I'll come to you on the platform between eleven and twelve.

Our duty to your honour.

Our duty to your lordship.

Your loves, as mine to you: farewell.

Give me your love, as I give mine to you. Goodbye.

My father’s spirit in arms! All is not well; I doubt some foul play: would the night were come! Till then sit still, my soul: foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.

My father's spirit in armour! All is not well. I suspect some foul play. I wish the night would come! Until then be still, my soul. Wicked deeds will rise into men's sight, even if the whole earth is piled on top of them.