Original
Modern English
Who’s there?
Who’s there?
Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself.
No, answer me. Stand and show yourself.
Long live the King!
Long live the King!
Barnardo?
Barnardo?
He.
Yes.
You come most carefully upon your hour.
You’ve come exactly on time.
’Tis now struck twelve. Get thee to bed, Francisco.
It’s midnight. Go to bed, Francisco.
For this relief much thanks.’Tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart.
I appreciate the relief. It’s freezing out, And I feel awful.
Have you had quiet guard?
Did you have a quiet shift?
Not a mouse stirring.
Not a single mouse moved.
Well, good night. If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste.
Alright, good night. If you run into Horatio and Marcellus, The guys taking over from me, tell them to hurry.
I think I hear them. Stand, ho! Who is there?
I think I hear them. Hold on! Who’s there?
Friends to this ground.
Friends to this place.
And liegemen to the Dane.
And subjects to the King of Denmark.
Give you good night.
Good night to you.
O, farewell, honest soldier, who hath reliev’d you?
Oh, goodbye, honest soldier. Who replaced you?
Barnardo has my place. Give you good-night.
Barnardo is taking my shift. Good night.
Holla, Barnardo!
Hey, Barnardo!
Say, what, is Horatio there?
What? Is Horatio there?
A piece of him.
A little bit of him.
Welcome, Horatio. Welcome, good Marcellus.
Welcome, Horatio. Welcome, good Marcellus.
What, has this thing appear’d again tonight?
What, has the ghost shown up again tonight?
I have seen nothing.
I haven’t seen anything.
Horatio says’tis but our fantasy, And will not let belief take hold of him Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us. Therefore I have entreated him along With us to watch the minutes of this night, That if again this apparition come He may approve our eyes and speak to it.
Horatio says it’s just our imagination, And won’t let himself believe In this terrifying sight that we’ve seen twice. That’s why I asked him to come with us To keep watch tonight, So if the ghost appears again, He can verify what we see and talk to it.
Tush, tush,’twill not appear.
Nonsense, it won’t show up.
Sit down awhile, And let us once again assail your ears, That are so fortified against our story, What we two nights have seen.
Sit down for a moment, And let us try once more to convince you, Since you’re so set against our story, Of what we’ve seen the last two nights.
Well, sit we down, And let us hear Barnardo speak of this.
Alright, let’s sit down, And let Barnardo tell his story again.
Last night of all, When yond same star that’s westward from the pole, Had made his course t’illume that part of heaven Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself, The bell then beating one—
Last night, just as, When that same star to the west of the North Pole, Had completed its path to light up that part of the sky Where it now shines, Marcellus and I, The clock striking one—
Peace, break thee off. Look where it comes again.
Quiet, stop. Look, here it comes again.
.
.
In the same figure, like the King that’s dead.
Just like the dead King.
Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio.
You’re a scholar; talk to it, Horatio.
Looks it not like the King? Mark it, Horatio.
Doesn’t it look like the King? Watch it, Horatio.
Most like. It harrows me with fear and wonder.
Very much so. It fills me with fear and amazement.
It would be spoke to.
It needs to be spoken to.
Question it, Horatio.
Ask it, Horatio.
What art thou that usurp’st this time of night, Together with that fair and warlike form In which the majesty of buried Denmark Did sometimes march? By heaven I charge thee speak.
Who are you, who take this hour of the night, Along with that noble, warrior-like shape In which the greatness of Denmark’s late King Once marched? By God, I command you, speak!
It is offended.
It’s angry.
See, it stalks away.
Look, it’s moving away.
Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee speak!
Wait! Speak, speak! I command you, speak!
’Tis gone, and will not answer.
It’s gone, and won’t respond.
How now, Horatio! You tremble and look pale. Is not this something more than fantasy? What think you on’t?
What’s wrong, Horatio? You’re shaking and look pale. Is this more than just a fantasy? What do you think of this?
Before my God, I might not this believe Without the sensible and true avouch Of mine own eyes.
I swear to God, I wouldn’t believe this If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.
Is it not like the King?
Doesn’t it look like the King?
As thou art to thyself: Such was the very armour he had on When he th’ambitious Norway combated; So frown’d he once, when in an angry parle He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice. ’Tis strange.
Just like you look like yourself: That was exactly the armor he wore When he fought the ambitious Norway; He even frowned like that once, when in an angry meeting He struck the sled-pulling Poles on the ice. It’s strange.
Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour, With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.
He’s done this before, twice already, and right at this exact time, Marching with a military stride past our watch.
In what particular thought to work I know not; But in the gross and scope of my opinion, This bodes some strange eruption to our state.
I’m not sure what exactly he means to do, But in general, from what I think, This suggests something strange is about to happen to our kingdom.
Good now, sit down, and tell me, he that knows, Why this same strict and most observant watch So nightly toils the subject of the land, And why such daily cast of brazen cannon And foreign mart for implements of war; Why such impress of shipwrights, whose sore task Does not divide the Sunday from the week. What might be toward, that this sweaty haste Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day: Who is’t that can inform me?
Tell me this, if you know: Why is there such a strict, constant watch Keeping guard over the land every night, And why are there so many daily shipments of heavy cannons And foreign supplies for war; Why are so many shipbuilders working overtime, Not even taking Sundays off? What’s going on that’s causing this rush, Making the night work just as hard as the day? Who can explain this to me?
That can I; At least, the whisper goes so. Our last King, Whose image even but now appear’d to us, Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway, Thereto prick’d on by a most emulate pride, Dar’d to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet, For so this side of our known world esteem’d him, Did slay this Fortinbras; who by a seal’d compact, Well ratified by law and heraldry, Did forfeit, with his life, all those his lands Which he stood seiz’d of, to the conqueror; Against the which, a moiety competent Was gaged by our King; which had return’d To the inheritance of Fortinbras, Had he been vanquisher; as by the same cov’nant And carriage of the article design’d, His fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras, Of unimproved mettle, hot and full, Hath in the skirts of Norway, here and there, Shark’d up a list of lawless resolutes, For food and diet, to some enterprise That hath a stomach in’t; which is no other, As it doth well appear unto our state, But to recover of us by strong hand And terms compulsatory, those foresaid lands So by his father lost. And this, I take it, Is the main motive of our preparations, The source of this our watch, and the chief head Of this post-haste and rummage in the land.
I can tell you; At least, that’s what the rumors say. Our last King, Whose ghost just appeared to us, Was, as you know, challenged by Fortinbras of Norway, Who, driven by pride, dared to fight him; In that battle, our brave Hamlet, Who was seen as a hero here, Killed Fortinbras; And by a signed agreement, Officially confirmed by law and heraldry, Fortinbras lost his lands to Hamlet, with his life. Our King then promised half of those lands to Fortinbras, Which would have gone back to him if Fortinbras had won; But as part of that same deal, The lands went to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras, Full of energy and hot-headed, Has gathered a group of lawless men, To carry out some risky venture That clearly has to do with recovering the lands His father lost from us. And I believe This is the reason for all our preparations, The reason for this watch, and the main cause Of the urgency and activity in the kingdom.
I think it be no other but e’en so: Well may it sort that this portentous figure Comes armed through our watch so like the King That was and is the question of these wars.
I think you’re right: It makes sense that this ominous figure Is walking around our watch, dressed just like the King Who is still the cause of this war.
A mote it is to trouble the mind’s eye. In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets; As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, Disasters in the sun; and the moist star, Upon whose influence Neptune’s empire stands, Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse. And even the like precurse of fierce events, As harbingers preceding still the fates And prologue to the omen coming on, Have heaven and earth together demonstrated Unto our climatures and countrymen.
It’s a tiny thing, but it makes you uneasy. Right before Julius Caesar fell in Rome, The graves were empty, and the dead wandered the streets, Making eerie sounds; There were signs in the sky—comets with fiery tails, And blood rained down. Even the moon, whose power controls the tides, Was sick, as if the world was coming to an end. And just like that, we’ve seen similar signs of doom, Signs that come before a tragedy, Demonstrating that heaven and earth are warning us Here in our own land.
.
.
But, soft, behold! Lo, where it comes again! I’ll cross it, though it blast me. Stay, illusion! If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, Speak to me. If there be any good thing to be done, That may to thee do ease, and grace to me, Speak to me. If thou art privy to thy country’s fate, Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid, O speak! Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life Extorted treasure in the womb of earth, For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death, Speak of it. Stay, and speak!
But wait, look! Here it comes again! I’ll confront it, even if it curses me. Stay, illusion! If you can speak, or make any sound, Speak to me. If there’s something good I can do That will bring you peace and grace to me, Speak to me. If you know the fate of our country, And you can warn us, please do. Or if you’ve hidden treasure in the earth, And that’s why spirits like you walk in death, Speak of it. Stay, and speak!
Stop it, Marcellus!
Stop it, Marcellus!
Shall I strike at it with my partisan?
Should I strike at it with my spear?
Do, if it will not stand.
Go ahead, if it doesn’t stand still.
’Tis here!
It’s here!
’Tis here!
It’s here!
’Tis gone! We do it wrong, being so majestical, To offer it the show of violence, For it is as the air, invulnerable, And our vain blows malicious mockery.
It’s gone! We’re wrong to act so grandly, To treat it with violence, Because it’s like the air, untouchable, And our foolish blows are just cruel mockery.
It was about to speak, when the cock crew.
It was about to speak when the rooster crowed.
And then it started, like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons. I have heard The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Awake the god of day; and at his warning, Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, Th’extravagant and erring spirit hies To his confine. And of the truth herein This present object made probation.
And then it moved, like something guilty Responding to a scary call. I’ve heard That the rooster, which announces the morning, With his loud and sharp call Wakes the god of the day; and at his signal, Whether on sea or fire, earth or air, The wandering and lost spirit hurries To its resting place. And this event right here Proves that what I’ve heard is true.
It faded on the crowing of the cock. Some say that ever’gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long; And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad, The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm; So hallow’d and so gracious is the time.
It disappeared when the rooster crowed. Some say that every year, at the time of year When we celebrate our Savior’s birth, The bird of dawn sings all night long; And then, they say, no spirit dares to wander, The nights are pure, no planets cause harm, No fairy steals, nor witch can cast a spell; The time is so holy and so blessed.
So have I heard, and do in part believe it. But look, the morn in russet mantle clad, Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastward hill. Break we our watch up, and by my advice, Let us impart what we have seen tonight Unto young Hamlet; for upon my life, This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him. Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it, As needful in our loves, fitting our duty?
I’ve heard that too, and I partly believe it. But look, the morning in her reddish gown Walks over the dew on that high hill to the east. Let’s end our watch, and I suggest That we tell young Hamlet what we’ve seen tonight. For I believe, on my life, That this spirit, silent with us, will speak to him. Do you agree that we should tell him, Since it’s the right thing to do and it’s our duty?
Let’s do’t, I pray, and I this morning know Where we shall find him most conveniently.
Let’s do it, I beg you, and I know where We can find him easily this morning.