Hamlet

I have of late,

wherefore I know not...

Iost all my mirth.

What a piece of work is a man.

How noble in reason,

how infinite in faculties.

In form, in moving,

how express and admirable.

In action, how like an ngel.

In apprehensin, how like a god.

The beauty of the worid,

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 is 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 and 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 follow 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,

co-leagued with this

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 to the mouth,

than the throne of Denmark

to thy father.

What wouldst thou have, Laertes?

My dread lord, your leave

and favour to return to France,

from whence, though willing I come

to show my duty in your coronation,

now I must confess that duty done,

my thoughts bend again to France.

Have you your father's leave?

What says Polonius?

He has wrung from me by 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 colour off,

and let thine eye look like

a friend on Denmark.

Do not with veiled 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.

They are actions

that a man might play.

But I have within

that 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.

That father lost,

lost his,

and the survivor bound

in filial obligation for some term

to do obsequious sorrow.

But to persevere in condolement

is impious stubbornness.

'Tis 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

is most retrograde

to our desire.

We beseech you to remain 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.

O that this too too solid flesh

would melt,

thaw and resolve itself

into a dew.

Or the Everlasting had not fixed

his canon against self slaughter.

O God, how weary, stale,

flat and unprofitable seem to me

all the uses of this worid.

'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

visit her face too roughly.

She would hang on him as if

increase of appetite grew by

what it fed on, yet within a month,

I may not think on it.

Frailty, thy name is woman.

O 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, O, God.

A beast that wants discourse of

reason would have mourned longer.

Married with my 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.

What make you from Wittenberg?

Marcella.

My good lord.

I am 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?

I came to see

your father's funeral.

I prithee, do not mock me,

it was to see my mother's wedding.

Indeed, it followed hard upon.

Thrift, Horatio.

The funeral baked meats did

coldly furnish the marriage tables.

Would I have met my dearest foe

in Heaven

or ever I had seen that day.

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,

I shall not see his like again.

I think I saw him,

yesternight.

Saw? Who?

My lord, the King, your father.

The King, my father?

Season your admiration for a while

with an attent ear

while I deliver upon witness of

this gentleman this marvel to you.

In the dead waste of the middle of

the night, the apparition comes.

Where was this?

Upon the platform where we watched.

'Tis here.

Did you not speak to it?

I did, but answer made it none.

Yet once, methought,

it lifted up its head,

like as if it would speak.

Stay, illusin.

If thou hast any sound or use

of voice, speak to me.

It is offended.

If there be good 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 of it 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.

How would I have been there.

I would have much amazed you.

I will watch tonight.

I will 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 what shall hap tonight,

give it understanding but no tongue.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes