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And can you by no drift of circumstance Get from him why he puts on this confusion, Grating so harshly all his days of quiet With turbulent and dangerous lunacy?
Can you figure out why he’s acting so confused, Why he’s disturbing his usual calm, With such wild and dangerous madness?
He does confess he feels himself distracted, But from what cause he will by no means speak.
He admits he’s upset, But he won’t say why.
Nor do we find him forward to be sounded, But with a crafty madness keeps aloof When we would bring him on to some confession Of his true state.
And we can’t get him to open up, He keeps his distance with a clever madness, When we try to get him to admit the truth About what’s really going on with him.
Did he receive you well?
Did he treat you kindly?
Most like a gentleman.
Yes, like a gentleman.
But with much forcing of his disposition.
But we had to push him a bit to act that way.
Niggard of question, but of our demands, Most free in his reply.
He didn’t ask many questions, but when we did ask, He answered freely enough.
Did you assay him to any pastime?
Did you try to get him to do anything fun?
Madam, it so fell out that certain players We o’er-raught on the way. Of these we told him, And there did seem in him a kind of joy To hear of it. They are about the court, And, as I think, they have already order This night to play before him.
Yes, Your Majesty, we met some actors on the way. We told him about them, And it seemed to bring him some happiness To hear it. They’re here at the court, And I think they’ve already arranged to perform for him tonight.
’Tis most true; And he beseech’d me to entreat your Majesties To hear and see the matter.
That’s true; And he asked me to urge you both To watch and listen to the performance.
With all my heart; and it doth much content me To hear him so inclin’d. Good gentlemen, give him a further edge, And drive his purpose on to these delights.
I’m happy to hear that; It pleases me greatly to know he’s interested. Good gentlemen, encourage him further, And push him toward these activities.
We shall, my lord.
We will, my lord.
Sweet Gertrude, leave us too, For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither, That he, as’twere by accident, may here Affront Ophelia. Her father and myself, lawful espials, Will so bestow ourselves that, seeing unseen, We may of their encounter frankly judge, And gather by him, as he is behav’d, If’t be th’affliction of his love or no That thus he suffers for.
Sweet Gertrude, leave us too, For we have closely sent for Hamlet here, So that he, as if by accident, might here Confront Ophelia. Her father and I, as lawful spies, Will position ourselves so that, unseen, we can Honestly judge their meeting, And figure out from his behavior, If it’s truly his love that causes him to suffer.
I shall obey you. And for your part, Ophelia, I do wish That your good beauties be the happy cause Of Hamlet’s wildness: so shall I hope your virtues Will bring him to his wonted way again, To both your honours.
I will do as you ask. And for your part, Ophelia, I hope That your good looks are the reason For Hamlet’s madness: this way I’ll hope your virtues Will bring him back to his usual self, And restore honor to you both.
Madam, I wish it may.
Madam, I hope so too.
Ophelia, walk you here.—Gracious, so please you, We will bestow ourselves. [
] Read from this book, So the appearance of being busy might explain Your being alone.—We often make this mistake, It’s well known, that with a look of devotion And pious actions, we cover up The devil himself.
] Read on this book, That show of such an exercise may colour Your loneliness.—We are oft to blame in this, ’Tis too much prov’d, that with devotion’s visage And pious action we do sugar o’er The devil himself.
] Read from this book, So the appearance of being busy might explain Your being alone.—We often make this mistake, It’s well known, that with a look of devotion And pious actions, we cover up The devil himself.
[
] Oh, it’s too true! How sharply that speech pricks my conscience! The prostitute’s face, made beautiful with makeup, Is no uglier than the thing that helps it Than my actions are compared to my polished words. Oh, what a heavy burden!
] O’tis too true! How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience! The harlot’s cheek, beautied with plastering art, Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it Than is my deed to my most painted word. O heavy burden!
] Oh, it’s too true! How sharply that speech pricks my conscience! The prostitute’s face, made beautiful with makeup, Is no uglier than the thing that helps it Than my actions are compared to my polished words. Oh, what a heavy burden!
I hear him coming. Let’s withdraw, my lord.
I hear him coming. Let’s leave, my lord.
.
.
To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die—to sleep, No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to:’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of dispriz’d love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action. Soft you now, The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember’d.
To be, or not to be, that is the question: Is it nobler to endure The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take up arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die—to sleep, And that’s all; and by sleeping, we end The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to: it’s an end Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep. To sleep, maybe to dream—ah, there’s the problem, For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal body, Must give us pause. That’s what makes The suffering of a long life so unbearable. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The wrongs of the oppressor, the insults of the proud, The pain of unreturned love, the delays of justice, The arrogance of office, and the insults That good people take from the unworthy, When they could end their suffering With a simple knife? Who would bear these burdens, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, If not for the fear of something after death, The undiscovered country, from whose border No traveler returns, that confuses the will, And makes us prefer to endure the troubles we know Rather than fly to others we don’t understand? Thus, conscience makes cowards of us all, And thus the natural strength of resolution Is weakened by the pale shadow of thought, And great, important plans Are diverted by these doubts And lose their chance to succeed. Wait, hold on, The beautiful Ophelia! Nymph, in your prayers May all my sins be remembered.
Good my lord, How does your honour for this many a day?
Good my lord, How have you been, for these past many days?
I humbly thank you; well, well, well.
I thank you humbly; I’m well, well, well.
My lord, I have remembrances of yours That I have longed long to re-deliver. I pray you, now receive them.
My lord, I have some things of yours That I’ve wanted to return to you for a long time. I beg you, please take them back.
No, not I. I never gave you aught.
No, I never gave you anything.
My honour’d lord, you know right well you did, And with them words of so sweet breath compos’d As made the things more rich; their perfume lost, Take these again; for to the noble mind Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. There, my lord.
My honored lord, you know very well you did, And with them, words so sweetly spoken That they made those gifts more valuable; their scent is gone, But take them back now; for to the noble mind, Rich gifts lose their value when the giver is unkind. There, my lord.
Ha, ha! Are you honest?
Ha, ha! Are you truthful?
My lord?
My lord?
Are you fair?
Are you beautiful?
What means your lordship?
What do you mean, my lord?
That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.
If you’re honest and beautiful, then your honesty should have nothing to do with your beauty.
Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?
Could beauty, my lord, have a better companion than honesty?
Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness. This was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once.
Yes, really; because the power of beauty will more easily turn honesty into a prostitute than honesty can make beauty virtuous. This used to be a paradox, but now the times prove it. I loved you once.
Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.
Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.
You should not have believed me; for virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it. I loved you not.
You shouldn’t have believed me, because virtue can’t protect us completely from our flaws. I didn’t love you.
I was the more deceived.
I was the more deceived.
Get thee to a nunnery. Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me. I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves all, believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery. Where’s your father?
Go to a convent. Why would you bring more sinners into the world? I’m somewhat honest, but I could still accuse myself of so many things that it’d be better if my mother hadn’t had me. I’m very proud, vengeful, ambitious, and I have more sins than I can count, more than I can even think of, imagine, or have time to act on. What are people like me supposed to do, stuck between earth and heaven? We’re all total scoundrels, don’t trust any of us. Go to a convent. Where’s your father?
At home, my lord.
At home, my lord.
Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool nowhere but in’s own house. Farewell.
Lock the door on him, so he can act foolish only in his own house. Goodbye.
O help him, you sweet heavens!
Oh, help him, sweet heavens!
If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry. Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go: farewell. Or if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go; and quickly too. Farewell.
If you marry, I’ll give you this curse as your dowry. Be as pure as ice, as innocent as snow, and still people will speak badly of you. Go to a convent, go; goodbye. Or if you must marry, marry a fool, because wise men know exactly what monsters they turn into when they marry. Go to a convent, and quickly. Goodbye.
O heavenly powers, restore him!
Oh, heavenly powers, bring him back to his senses!
I have heard of your paintings too, well enough. God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another. You jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nickname God’s creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more on’t, it hath made me mad. I say, we will have no more marriages. Those that are married already, all but one, shall live; the rest shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go.
I’ve heard about your paintings, I know enough. God gave you one face, and you make another for yourselves. You dance, you walk, you talk in a silly way, and give names to God’s creatures, making your selfishness out to be ignorance. Enough, I won’t talk about it anymore, it’s driven me mad. I say, we won’t have any more marriages. Those who are already married, all except one, will live; the rest will stay as they are. To a convent, go.
O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown! The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword, Th’expectancy and rose of the fair state, The glass of fashion and the mould of form, Th’observ’d of all observers, quite, quite down! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, That suck’d the honey of his music vows, Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh, That unmatch’d form and feature of blown youth Blasted with ecstasy. O woe is me, T’have seen what I have seen, see what I see.
Oh, what a great mind has been ruined! The nobleman’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, look, speech, sword, The hope and best of the kingdom, The model of fashion and shape, The one admired by everyone, all gone, all gone! And I, the most miserable and hopeless of women, Who once enjoyed the sweetness of his loving words, Now see his noble and powerful mind, Like beautiful bells that are out of tune and harsh, That perfect body and youthful beauty Wasted by madness. Oh, woe is me, To have seen what I’ve seen, to see what I see now.
Love? His affections do not that way tend, Nor what he spake, though it lack’d form a little, Was not like madness. There’s something in his soul O’er which his melancholy sits on brood, And I do doubt the hatch and the disclose Will be some danger, which for to prevent, I have in quick determination Thus set it down: he shall with speed to England For the demand of our neglected tribute: Haply the seas and countries different, With variable objects, shall expel This something settled matter in his heart, Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus From fashion of himself. What think you on’t?
Love? His feelings don’t seem to be heading that way, And what he said, though it wasn’t quite clear, Didn’t seem like madness. There’s something in his soul That makes him brood in his sadness, And I fear whatever comes from this might be dangerous. To prevent that, I’ve decided quickly: He’ll go to England right away, To deal with the unpaid tribute we owe there. Maybe the different countries and seas, With their changing sights and experiences, will push away The troubled thoughts that weigh on his heart, Which are making him act so differently. What do you think?
It shall do well. But yet do I believe The origin and commencement of his grief Sprung from neglected love. How now, Ophelia? You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said, We heard it all. My lord, do as you please, But if you hold it fit, after the play, Let his queen mother all alone entreat him To show his grief, let her be round with him, And I’ll be plac’d, so please you, in the ear Of all their conference. If she find him not, To England send him; or confine him where Your wisdom best shall think.
That sounds good. But I still think His sorrow started with unreturned love. What’s going on, Ophelia? You don’t need to tell us what Hamlet said, We heard everything. My lord, do as you think is best, But if you agree, after the play, Let his mother, the queen, speak to him alone, To try to get him to express his sorrow. She should be firm with him, And I’ll be placed, if you please, to overhear Their conversation. If she doesn’t succeed, Send him to England, or lock him up wherever You think is best.
It shall be so. Madness in great ones must not unwatch’d go.
It shall be so. Great people who go mad must be watched closely.