Original
Modern English
I like him not, nor stands it safe with us To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you, I your commission will forthwith dispatch, And he to England shall along with you. The terms of our estate may not endure Hazard so near us as doth hourly grow Out of his lunacies.
I don’t like him, and it’s not safe for us To let his madness run wild. So get ready, I’ll send your orders right away, And he’ll go with you to England. The state of our kingdom can’t handle The danger that’s growing out of his madness.
We will ourselves provide. Most holy and religious fear it is To keep those many many bodies safe That live and feed upon your Majesty.
We’ll take care of it ourselves. It’s our holy duty and responsibility To keep safe all the people who depend On your Majesty to survive.
The single and peculiar life is bound With all the strength and armour of the mind, To keep itself from’noyance; but much more That spirit upon whose weal depend and rest The lives of many. The cease of majesty Dies not alone; but like a gulf doth draw What’s near it with it. It is a massy wheel Fix’d on the summit of the highest mount, To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things Are mortis’d and adjoin’d; which when it falls, Each small annexment, petty consequence, Attends the boist’rous ruin. Never alone Did the King sigh, but with a general groan.
A person’s life is bound By the strength and armor of the mind, To protect it from harm; but even more so Is the spirit that holds the lives of many. The fall of a king Doesn’t happen in isolation; it pulls down Everything around it. It’s like a massive wheel At the top of the highest mountain, To which ten thousand smaller things Are attached; when it falls, Every small thing that was connected to it Crashes down with it. A king never sighs alone, But his troubles bring a collective groan.
Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage; For we will fetters put upon this fear, Which now goes too free-footed.
Get ready, I beg you, for this quick journey; We’ll put chains on this fear, Which is currently running too freely.
We will haste us.
We’ll hurry.
.
Enter Polonius.
My lord, he’s going to his mother’s closet. Behind the arras I’ll convey myself To hear the process. I’ll warrant she’ll tax him home, And as you said, and wisely was it said, ’Tis meet that some more audience than a mother, Since nature makes them partial, should o’erhear The speech of vantage. Fare you well, my liege, I’ll call upon you ere you go to bed, And tell you what I know.
My lord, he’s going to his mother’s room. I’ll hide behind the curtains To hear what happens. I’m sure she’ll blame him, And as you said—and it was a wise thing to say— It’s right that someone other than a mother, Since they’re naturally biased, should overhear This conversation. Goodbye, my liege, I’ll check in with you before you go to bed, And tell you what I’ve learned.
Thanks, dear my lord.
Thanks, my dear lord.
O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t,— A brother’s murder! Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent, And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offence? And what’s in prayer but this twofold force, To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardon’d being down? Then I’ll look up. My fault is past. But O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder! That cannot be; since I am still possess’d Of those effects for which I did the murder,— My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. May one be pardon’d and retain th’offence? In the corrupted currents of this world Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft’tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law. But’tis not so above; There is no shuffling, there the action lies In his true nature, and we ourselves compell’d Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? What rests? Try what repentance can. What can it not? Yet what can it, when one cannot repent? O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul, that struggling to be free, Art more engag’d! Help, angels! Make assay: Bow, stubborn knees; and heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe. All may be well.
Oh, my sin is so terrible, it stinks all the way to heaven; It carries the oldest and greatest curse on it,— A brother’s murder! I can’t pray, Even though my desire is as strong as my will: My greater guilt stops me from carrying out my strong intention, And like a man who has two tasks to do, I hesitate, unsure of where to start, And end up neglecting both. What if this cursed hand Were covered in my brother’s blood, Isn’t there enough rain in the heavens To wash it clean, like fresh snow? What good is mercy If it’s just a way to face our crimes? And what’s prayer for, if not to do two things at once, To stop ourselves from falling into sin, Or to be forgiven after we fall? Then I’ll look up. My sin is in the past. But what kind of prayer Can help me now? Forgive me for my terrible murder! That can’t work; since I still possess The things I gained through the murder,— My crown, my ambition, and my queen. Can someone be forgiven and still keep their sin? In the corrupted world we live in, The golden hand of guilt can push justice aside, And often we see that the wicked get what they want And buy their way out of the law. But it’s not that way in heaven; There’s no trickery there, actions are judged For what they truly are, and we are forced To face the full truth of our crimes, And give evidence of them. So what now? What’s left? Try what repentance can do. What can’t it do? But what can it do, when you can’t repent? Oh, this is a miserable state! Oh, heart as black as death! Oh, trapped soul, that struggles to be free, But only becomes more bound! Help me, angels! Try, Bend, stubborn knees; and heart, made of steel, Be soft as the muscles of a newborn. All may still be well.
.
.
Now might I do it pat, now he is praying. And now I’ll do’t. And so he goes to heaven; And so am I reveng’d. That would be scann’d: A villain kills my father, and for that I, his sole son, do this same villain send To heaven. O, this is hire and salary, not revenge. He took my father grossly, full of bread, With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; And how his audit stands, who knows save heaven? But in our circumstance and course of thought, ’Tis heavy with him. And am I then reveng’d, To take him in the purging of his soul, When he is fit and season’d for his passage? No. Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent: When he is drunk asleep; or in his rage, Or in th’incestuous pleasure of his bed, At gaming, swearing; or about some act That has no relish of salvation in’t, Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven, And that his soul may be as damn’d and black As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays. This physic but prolongs thy sickly days.
Now I could do it, now he’s praying. And now I’ll do it. Then he goes to heaven; And I am avenged. But wait: A villain kills my father, and for that I, his only son, send this same villain To heaven. Oh, that’s payment, not revenge. He took my father when he was a fool, full of food, With all his crimes hanging out, as bright as May; And who knows how he’s judged, except for heaven? But in my case and way of thinking, It weighs heavily on him. And am I avenged, By sending him to purify his soul, When he’s ready and prepared for his death? No. Up, sword, and take a more terrible aim: When he’s drunk and asleep; or in his rage, Or in the sinful pleasures of his bed, Or gambling, swearing; or in some act That has no hint of salvation in it, Then trip him, so that his heels may kick at heaven, And his soul may be as damned and dark As hell, where it’s headed. My mother stays. This treatment only stretches out your sick days.
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below. Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
My words go up, but my thoughts stay below. Words without thoughts never make it to heaven.