Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 3

My necessaries are embark’d. Farewell. And, sister, as the winds give benefit And convoy is assistant, do not sleep, But let me hear from you.

My luggage is on board. Goodbye. And sister, whenever the winds are favourable and there's a ship to carry letters, don't be lazy — let me hear from you.

Do you doubt that?

Do you doubt that I will?

For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour, Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood; A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.

As for Hamlet, and his flirting attentions, treat it as a passing fashion and a game of the blood — a violet in the springtime of youthful nature, early but not lasting, sweet but not enduring, the fragrance and pastime of a minute. No more than that.

No more but so?

No more than that?

Think it no more. For nature crescent does not grow alone In thews and bulk; but as this temple waxes, The inward service of the mind and soul Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now, And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch The virtue of his will; but you must fear, His greatness weigh’d, his will is not his own; For he himself is subject to his birth: He may not, as unvalu’d persons do, Carve for himself; for on his choice depends The sanctity and health of this whole state; And therefore must his choice be circumscrib’d Unto the voice and yielding of that body Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you, It fits your wisdom so far to believe it As he in his particular act and place May give his saying deed; which is no further Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal. Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain If with too credent ear you list his songs, Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open To his unmaster’d importunity. Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister; And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire. The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmask her beauty to the moon. Virtue itself ’scapes not calumnious strokes: The canker galls the infants of the spring Too oft before their buttons be disclos’d, And in the morn and liquid dew of youth Contagious blastments are most imminent. Be wary then, best safety lies in fear. Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.

Think it no more than that. For a growing person does not increase only in muscle and size; as this temple of the body grows, the inner work of the mind and soul grows larger with it. Perhaps he loves you now, and no stain or trickery spoils the honesty of his intentions. But you must be afraid: considering his high rank, his desires are not his own, for he himself is subject to his birth. He may not, as people of no importance can, choose for himself, because on his choice depends the well-being and health of this whole state. And so his choice must be limited by the opinion and consent of that body of which he is the head. So if he says he loves you, it suits your good sense to believe it only so far as he, in his particular position and situation, can make his words into action — which is no further than the general voice of Denmark agrees to. Then weigh the loss your honour may suffer if you listen to his songs with too trusting an ear, or lose your heart, or open your chaste treasure to his uncontrolled pressing. Be afraid of it, Ophelia, be afraid of it, my dear sister, and keep yourself behind your feelings, out of the firing range and danger of desire. The most cautious girl is wasteful enough if she unveils her beauty to the moon. Virtue itself does not escape slanderous blows. The cankerworm eats the babies of the spring too often before their buds have opened, and in the morning and fresh dew of youth infectious blights are most likely to strike. So be careful: the best safety lies in fear. Youth rebels against itself, even with nobody else nearby.

I shall th’effect of this good lesson keep As watchman to my heart. But good my brother, Do not as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whilst like a puff’d and reckless libertine Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, And recks not his own rede.

I'll keep the substance of this good lesson as a guard over my heart. But my good brother, don't do as some ungracious preachers do: show me the steep and thorny road to heaven, while he himself, like a bloated and reckless pleasure-seeker, walks the primrose path of flirtation and takes no notice of his own advice.

O, fear me not. I stay too long. But here my father comes.

Oh, don't worry about me. I'm staying too long. But here comes my father.

A double blessing is a double grace; Occasion smiles upon a second leave.

A double blessing is a double blessing indeed; luck smiles on a second farewell.

Yet here, Laertes? Aboard, aboard, for shame. The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, And you are stay’d for. There, my blessing with you.

Still here, Laertes? Get on board, get on board, shame on you. The wind is sitting in the shoulder of your sail, and they are waiting for you. There — take my blessing with you.

And these few precepts in thy memory Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportion’d thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch’d, unfledg’d comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, Bear’t that th’opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgement. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy: For the apparel oft proclaims the man; And they in France of the best rank and station Are of a most select and generous chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be: For loan oft loses both itself and friend; And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This 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.

And see that you write these few rules of mine in your memory. Don't give your thoughts a voice, and don't act on any unbalanced thought. Be friendly, but by no means cheaply familiar. Those friends you have, once you've tested their worth, fasten to your soul with hoops of steel; but don't wear out your palm shaking hands with every newly hatched, unfledged acquaintance. Beware of getting into a quarrel, but once you're in it, carry it through so that your opponent has reason to beware of you. Give every man your ear, but few your voice. Listen to every man's opinion, but keep your own judgement to yourself. Let your clothes be as expensive as your purse can afford, but not showy in style — rich, not gaudy — for the clothing often announces the man, and those in France of the best rank and position are most discriminating and refined in that. Be neither a borrower nor a lender, for a loan often loses both the money and the friend, and borrowing blunts the edge of thrift. Above all this: be true to your own self, and it must follow, as night follows day, that you cannot then be false to anyone. Goodbye. May my blessing ripen this advice in you.

Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.

I take my leave most humbly, my lord.

The time invites you; go, your servants tend.

The time is calling you. Go — your servants are waiting.

Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well What I have said to you.

Goodbye, Ophelia, and remember well what I have said to you.

’Tis in my memory lock’d, And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

It's locked in my memory, and you yourself shall keep the key to it.

Farewell.

Goodbye.

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

What is it, Ophelia, that he has said to you?

So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.

If you please, something concerning the Lord Hamlet.

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.

Indeed, that's a good reminder. I'm told that he has very often lately given you private time, and that you yourself have been most free and generous in granting him a hearing. If that's so — as it has been reported to me, and by way of warning — I must tell you that you don't understand your own position as clearly as befits my daughter and your honour. What is going on between you? Tell me the truth.

He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders Of his affection to me.

He has, my lord, lately made many offers of his affection to me.

Affection! Pooh! You speak like a green girl, Unsifted in such perilous circumstance. Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?

Affection! Nonsense! You talk like an inexperienced girl, untested in such dangerous circumstances. Do you believe his offers, as you call them?

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

I don't know, my lord, what I ought to think.

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, Running it thus,—you’ll tender me a fool.

Indeed, I'll teach you. Think of yourself as a baby, because you've taken these offers as genuine payment when they aren't true currency. Offer yourself at a higher price — or, not to run the poor word out of breath by using it like this, you'll offer me up a fool.

My lord, he hath importun’d me with love In honourable fashion.

My lord, he has pressed his love on me in an honourable fashion.

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

Yes, fashion you may well call it. Come on, come on.

And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord, With almost all the holy vows of heaven.

And he has backed up his words, my lord, with nearly all the holy vows of heaven.

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.

Yes, snares to catch woodcocks. I know how, when the blood is burning, the soul lavishly lends the tongue vows. These flare-ups, daughter, which give more light than heat and go out in both even as they are being promised, while the promise is still being made — you must not mistake them for real fire. From now on be a little more sparing with your maiden company. Rate your conversations more highly than to come at a mere summons to talk. As for Lord Hamlet, believe this much about him: that he is young, and may walk on a longer leash than can be allowed to you. In short, Ophelia, do not believe his vows, for they are go-betweens, not of the colour their outer clothing shows, but simply pleaders for unholy purposes, speaking like holy and pious pimps, the better to deceive. This is the sum of it: in plain terms, from this time on I will not have you disgrace any moment of your free time by speaking or talking with the Lord Hamlet. See to it, I order you. Come along.

I shall obey, my lord.

I shall obey, my lord.