Hamlet, Act 4, Scene 4

Go, Captain, from me greet the Danish king. Tell him that by his license, Fortinbras Craves the conveyance of a promis’d march Over his kingdom. You know the rendezvous. If that his Majesty would aught with us, We shall express our duty in his eye; And let him know so.

Go, Captain, and give my greetings to the Danish king. Tell him that, with his permission, Fortinbras asks for the safe passage of the march he was promised across his kingdom. You know where we are to meet. If his Majesty wants anything with us, we will come and pay our respects to him in person; tell him that.

I will do’t, my lord.

I'll do it, my lord.

Go softly on.

March on slowly.

Good sir, whose powers are these?

Good sir, whose troops are these?

They are of Norway, sir.

They belong to Norway, sir.

How purpos’d, sir, I pray you?

For what purpose, sir, may I ask?

Against some part of Poland.

Against some part of Poland.

Who commands them, sir?

Who is in command of them, sir?

The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras.

Old Norway's nephew, Fortinbras.

Goes it against the main of Poland, sir, Or for some frontier?

Is it going against the main part of Poland, sir, or only against some border region?

Truly to speak, and with no addition, We go to gain a little patch of ground That hath in it no profit but the name. To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it; Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee.

To speak truthfully, and without exaggeration, we are going to win a little patch of ground that has no value in it except the name. I wouldn't rent it for five ducats — five; and it wouldn't bring Norway or the Pole any richer return if it were sold outright.

Why, then the Polack never will defend it.

Why, then the Pole will never defend it.

Yes, it is already garrison’d.

Yes, it already has a garrison in it.

Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducats Will not debate the question of this straw! This is th’imposthume of much wealth and peace, That inward breaks, and shows no cause without Why the man dies. I humbly thank you, sir.

Two thousand lives and twenty thousand ducats will not settle the dispute over this straw! This is the abscess of too much wealth and peace, which bursts inside and shows no outward reason why the man is dying. I humbly thank you, sir.

God b’ wi’ you, sir.

God be with you, sir.

Will’t please you go, my lord?

Will you please come along, my lord?

I’ll be with you straight. Go a little before.

I'll be with you right away. Go on a little ahead.

How all occasions do inform against me, And spur my dull revenge. What is a man If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and godlike reason To fust in us unus’d. Now whether it be Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple Of thinking too precisely on th’event,— A thought which, quarter’d, hath but one part wisdom And ever three parts coward,—I do not know Why yet I live to say this thing’s to do, Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means To do’t. Examples gross as earth exhort me, Witness this army of such mass and charge, Led by a delicate and tender prince, Whose spirit, with divine ambition puff’d, Makes mouths at the invisible event, Exposing what is mortal and unsure To all that fortune, death, and danger dare, Even for an eggshell. Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour’s at the stake. How stand I then, That have a father kill’d, a mother stain’d, Excitements of my reason and my blood, And let all sleep, while to my shame I see The imminent death of twenty thousand men That, for a fantasy and trick of fame, Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, Which is not tomb enough and continent To hide the slain? O, from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth.

How every circumstance testifies against me and spurs on my sluggish revenge. What is a man, if the best thing he does and the whole business of his time is only to sleep and eat? An animal, nothing more. Surely the one who made us with such wide-ranging powers of thought, able to look before and after, did not give us that ability and that godlike reason so that it could grow mouldy in us for want of use. Now, whether it is animal forgetfulness, or some cowardly hesitation that comes from thinking too precisely about the outcome — a thought which, if you cut it in four, has only one part wisdom and three parts cowardice always — I do not know why I am still alive to say 'This thing has to be done,' since I have the reason, and the will, and the strength, and the means to do it. Examples as huge as the earth urge me on. Look at this army, so large and so costly, led by a fine, young prince whose spirit, swollen with heaven-sent ambition, makes faces at the outcome he cannot see, exposing what is mortal and fragile in him to everything that fortune, death and danger dare do — and all for an eggshell. To be truly great is not to be stirred without a great cause, but to find great cause for a quarrel in a straw when honour is at stake. Where do I stand, then, with a father killed, a mother dishonoured, provocations to my reason and my blood, and I let everything sleep, while to my shame I watch the coming death of twenty thousand men who, for a fantasy and a mere illusion of fame, go to their graves as if to their beds, fighting for a piece of land not big enough for their numbers to settle the quarrel on, not tomb or ground enough to hide the dead? From this moment on, let my thoughts be bloody or be worth nothing.