Original
Modern English
The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.
The air is really sharp; it’s freezing.
It is a nipping and an eager air.
It’s a biting, sharp cold.
What hour now?
What time is it now?
I think it lacks of twelve.
I think it’s almost twelve.
No, it is struck.
No, it’s already struck.
Indeed? I heard it not. It then draws near the season Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.
Really? I didn’t hear it. That means it’s almost the time When the spirit used to walk.
What does this mean, my lord?
What does this mean, my lord?
The King doth wake tonight and takes his rouse, Keeps wassail, and the swaggering upspring reels; And as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down, The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out The triumph of his pledge.
The King is up tonight, partying and drinking, He’s celebrating, stumbling around in a drunken mess; And while he drinks his wine from the Rhine, The drums and trumpets announce The success of his toast.
Is it a custom?
Is this a regular custom?
Ay marry is’t; And to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom More honour’d in the breach than the observance. This heavy-headed revel east and west Makes us traduc’d and tax’d of other nations: They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase Soil our addition; and indeed it takes From our achievements, though perform’d at height, The pith and marrow of our attribute. So oft it chances in particular men That for some vicious mole of nature in them, As in their birth, wherein they are not guilty, Since nature cannot choose his origin, By their o’ergrowth of some complexion, Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason; Or by some habit, that too much o’erleavens The form of plausive manners;—that these men, Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, Being Nature’s livery or Fortune’s star,— His virtues else,—be they as pure as grace, As infinite as man may undergo, Shall in the general censure take corruption From that particular fault. The dram of evil Doth all the noble substance often doubt To his own scandal.
Yes, indeed it is; And in my opinion, even though I’m from here, And born to these customs, it’s a tradition More respected when it’s broken than followed. This heavy drinking, east and west, Makes us mocked and criticized by other countries: They call us drunks, and with insulting words Tarnish our reputation; and really, it takes Away from our accomplishments, even when we achieve great things, The strength and substance of what we’re known for. So often it happens with individual people That because of some flaw in their nature, Like in their birth, which they’re not responsible for, Since nature can’t choose where they come from, Because of some extreme trait or condition, Often breaking down the walls of reason; Or because of some habit, that overshadows The usual good manners;—that these people, Carrying, I say, the mark of one flaw, Being Nature’s uniform or Fortune’s sign,— Their virtues, no matter how pure they are, As limitless as what a human being can endure, Will be corrupted in the public’s opinion By that one flaw. A small bit of evil Often makes people doubt all the good in them And damages their reputation.
Look, my lord, it comes!
Look, my lord, here it comes!
.
.
Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d, Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked or charitable, Thou com’st in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee. I’ll call thee Hamlet, King, father, royal Dane. O, answer me! Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell Why thy canoniz’d bones, hearsed in death, Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre, Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn’d, Hath op’d his ponderous and marble jaws To cast thee up again! What may this mean, That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel, Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous, and we fools of nature So horridly to shake our disposition With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls? Say, why is this? Wherefore? What should we do?
Angels and ministers of grace, protect us! Are you a spirit of health or a damned goblin? Bring with you airs from heaven or blasts from hell, Are your intentions wicked or good? You come in such a strange form That I must speak to you. I’ll call you Hamlet, King, father, royal Dane. Oh, answer me! Don’t let me burst out in ignorance; but tell Why your holy bones, buried in death, Have broken out of their tombs; why the grave, Where we saw you peacefully laid to rest, Has opened its heavy, marble jaws To spit you out again! What does this mean, That you, dead body, now fully armored, Are coming back to the light of the moon, Making the night terrifying, and making fools of us, Shaking our minds so violently With thoughts beyond our understanding? Tell me, why is this happening? Why? What should we do?
It beckons you to go away with it, As if it some impartment did desire To you alone.
It’s signaling for you to follow it, As if it has something to tell you, And you alone.
Look with what courteous action It waves you to a more removed ground. But do not go with it.
Look at how politely it motions, Waving you toward a more secluded place. But don’t go with it.
No, by no means.
No, definitely not.
It will not speak; then will I follow it.
It won’t speak; then I will follow it.
Do not, my lord.
Please, my lord, don’t.
Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin’s fee; And for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a thing immortal as itself? It waves me forth again. I’ll follow it.
Why should I be afraid? I don’t value my life at all; And for my soul, what can it do to that, Being as immortal as it is? It’s calling me again. I’ll follow it.
What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff That beetles o’er his base into the sea, And there assume some other horrible form Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason, And draw you into madness? Think of it. The very place puts toys of desperation, Without more motive, into every brain That looks so many fadoms to the sea And hears it roar beneath.
What if it leads you to the water, my lord, Or to the terrifying edge of a cliff That hangs over the sea, And there takes on some other monstrous form That could rob you of your reason, And drive you to madness? Think about it. The very place itself brings thoughts of desperation, Without any further reason, to anyone who looks Out over the sea and hears it roaring below.
It waves me still. Go on, I’ll follow thee.
It’s still calling me. Go on, I’ll follow you.
You shall not go, my lord.
You shall not go, my lord.
Hold off your hands.
Stay back.
Be rul’d; you shall not go.
Please, listen to us; you shall not go.
My fate cries out, And makes each petty artery in this body As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.
My destiny is calling out, And it makes every small vein in my body As strong as the Nemean lion’s muscle.
Still am I call’d. Unhand me, gentlemen.
I’m still being called. Let go of me, gentlemen.
By heaven, I’ll make a ghost of him that lets me. I say, away!—Go on, I’ll follow thee.
By God, I’ll turn the person who stops me into a ghost. I said, go away!—Go ahead, I’ll follow you.
He waxes desperate with imagination.
He’s becoming desperate, lost in his thoughts.
Let’s follow;’tis not fit thus to obey him.
Let’s follow him; it’s not right to just obey him like this.
Have after. To what issue will this come?
Let’s go after him. Where is this all leading?
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
Something is wrong in Denmark.
Heaven will direct it.
Heaven will guide it.
Nay, let’s follow him.
No, let’s follow him.