Original
Modern English
He will come straight. Look you lay home to him, Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with, And that your Grace hath screen’d and stood between Much heat and him. I’ll silence me e’en here. Pray you be round with him.
He’ll come straight here. You make sure to confront him, Tell him his actions have gone too far to tolerate, And that your Grace has protected him, Keeping him safe from harm. I’ll stay quiet right here. Please be direct with him.
[
] Mother, mother, mother.
] Mother, mother, mother.
] Mother, mother, mother.
I’ll warrant you, Fear me not. Withdraw, I hear him coming.
I promise you, don’t be afraid of me. Leave, I hear him coming.
.
.
Now, mother, what’s the matter?
Now, mother, what’s going on?
Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.
Hamlet, you’ve really upset your father.
Mother, you have my father much offended.
Mother, you’ve really upset my father.
Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.
Come on, you’re just talking nonsense.
Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.
Go on, you’re the one talking evil.
Why, how now, Hamlet?
What’s going on, Hamlet?
What’s the matter now?
What’s the problem now?
Have you forgot me?
Have you forgotten who I am?
No, by the rood, not so. You are the Queen, your husband’s brother’s wife, And, would it were not so. You are my mother.
No, by God, not at all. You’re the Queen, my husband’s brother’s wife, And I wish it weren’t true. You’re my mother.
Nay, then I’ll set those to you that can speak.
Well, if that’s how it is, I’ll bring in others who can speak to you.
Come, come, and sit you down, you shall not budge. You go not till I set you up a glass Where you may see the inmost part of you.
Come on, sit down, you’re not going anywhere. You won’t leave until I show you a mirror So you can see the deepest part of yourself.
What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murder me? Help, help, ho!
What are you going to do? You’re not going to kill me, are you? Help, help, somebody!
[
] Help! Help! Help!
] What, ho! help, help, help!
] Help! Help! Help!
How now? A rat? [
] Dead for a ducat, dead!
] Dead for a ducat, dead!
] Dead for a ducat, dead!
[
] Oh, I’m killed!
] O, I am slain!
] Oh, I’m killed!
O me, what hast thou done?
Oh my, what have you done?
Nay, I know not. is it the King?
No, I don’t know. Is it the King?
O what a rash and bloody deed is this!
Oh, what a reckless and bloody thing you’ve done!
A bloody deed. Almost as bad, good mother, As kill a king and marry with his brother.
A bloody thing. Almost as bad, good mother, As killing a king and marrying his brother.
As kill a king?
As killing a king?
Ay, lady,’twas my word.— [
] You miserable, reckless, interfering fool, goodbye! I thought you were someone better. Take your fate, You’ll find that being too nosy can be dangerous.— Stop wringing your hands. Sit down, And let me break your heart instead, because that’s what I’ll do, If it’s not already hardened; If this nasty habit hasn’t made it so tough, That it’s immune to feeling.
] Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better. Take thy fortune, Thou find’st to be too busy is some danger.— Leave wringing of your hands. Peace, sit you down, And let me wring your heart, for so I shall, If it be made of penetrable stuff; If damned custom have not braz’d it so, That it is proof and bulwark against sense.
] You miserable, reckless, interfering fool, goodbye! I thought you were someone better. Take your fate, You’ll find that being too nosy can be dangerous.— Stop wringing your hands. Sit down, And let me break your heart instead, because that’s what I’ll do, If it’s not already hardened; If this nasty habit hasn’t made it so tough, That it’s immune to feeling.
What have I done, that thou dar’st wag thy tongue In noise so rude against me?
What have I done, that you dare wag your tongue So rudely at me?
Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty, Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love, And sets a blister there. Makes marriage vows As false as dicers’oaths. O such a deed As from the body of contraction plucks The very soul, and sweet religion makes A rhapsody of words. Heaven’s face doth glow, Yea this solidity and compound mass, With tristful visage, as against the doom, Is thought-sick at the act.
A thing That ruins modesty’s grace and blush, Calls virtue a lie, takes the innocence From a pure love, and brands it with shame. Makes marriage vows As fake as a gambler’s promises. Oh, such a thing That rips away the very soul from the body, And turns sweet religion into empty words. Heaven’s face grows pale, And even this solid world, With its sad look, seems to be sickened by the act.
Ay me, what act, That roars so loud, and thunders in the index?
Oh, what act, That sounds so loud, and echoes in the world’s ears?
Look here upon this picture, and on this, The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. See what a grace was seated on this brow, Hyperion’s curls, the front of Jove himself, An eye like Mars, to threaten and command, A station like the herald Mercury New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill: A combination and a form indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man. This was your husband. Look you now what follows. Here is your husband, like a mildew’d ear Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes? Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes? You cannot call it love; for at your age The hey-day in the blood is tame, it’s humble, And waits upon the judgment: and what judgment Would step from this to this? Sense sure you have, Else could you not have motion; but sure that sense Is apoplex’d, for madness would not err Nor sense to ecstacy was ne’er so thrall’d But it reserv’d some quantity of choice To serve in such a difference. What devil was’t That thus hath cozen’d you at hoodman-blind? Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight, Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all, Or but a sickly part of one true sense Could not so mope. O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell, If thou canst mutine in a matron’s bones, To flaming youth let virtue be as wax, And melt in her own fire. Proclaim no shame When the compulsive ardour gives the charge, Since frost itself as actively doth burn, And reason panders will.
Look here at this picture, and here, The false likeness of two brothers. See how handsome this man was, with grace in his brow, Like the sun god’s curls, the face of Jupiter himself, Eyes like Mars, meant to threaten and command, A posture like Mercury, Descending from a mountain to deliver a message: A combination of traits that made him seem divine, As if every god had stamped his seal on him, To show the world he was a man. This was your husband. Now look what’s become of him. Here is your husband, like a rotten ear of corn, Destroying his healthy brother. Can you see it? Could you leave this beautiful mountain to rot, And feast on this swamp? Ha! Can you see it? You can’t call this love; because at your age, The passion in your blood is calm, it’s humble, And it listens to reason: and what reason Would lead you from this man to this one? You must have some sense, Or you couldn’t move; but surely that sense Is paralyzed, because madness wouldn’t make this mistake And sense, when in ecstasy, still keeps some choice To make better decisions. What devil was it That tricked you into this blindness? Eyes that can’t feel, feelings that can’t see, Ears that can’t hear, smell without any scent, Or just a faint part of a real sense Couldn’t be this lost. Oh, shame! Where’s your blush? Rebellious hell, If you can stir in a woman’s bones, Then let youth melt virtue down, And burn in its own fire. Don’t you feel any shame When passion pushes you to act, Since even frost can burn, And reason follows desire.
O Hamlet, speak no more. Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul, And there I see such black and grained spots As will not leave their tinct.
Oh Hamlet, stop talking. You turn my eyes into my very soul, And there I see such deep, dark stains That won’t ever go away.
Nay, but to live In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, Stew’d in corruption, honeying and making love Over the nasty sty.
No, but to live In the foul sweat of a dirty bed, Steeped in corruption, flirting and making love Over the disgusting pigsty.
O speak to me no more; These words like daggers enter in mine ears; No more, sweet Hamlet.
Oh, don’t say any more; These words feel like daggers in my ears; No more, sweet Hamlet.
A murderer and a villain; A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe Of your precedent lord. A vice of kings, A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, That from a shelf the precious diadem stole And put it in his pocket!
A murderer and a villain; A slave who isn’t even one-twentieth as worthy As your former husband. A kingly vice, A thief of the empire and its laws, Who stole the precious crown from a shelf And put it in his pocket!
No more.
No more.
A king of shreds and patches!—
A king made of scraps and rags!—
.
.
Save me and hover o’er me with your wings, You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure?
Save me and hover over me with your wings, You heavenly spirits! What is it you want?
Alas, he’s mad.
Oh, he’s mad.
Do you not come your tardy son to chide, That, laps’d in time and passion, lets go by The important acting of your dread command? O say!
Don’t you come here to scold your slow son, Who, lost in time and emotion, lets slip The crucial moment of your dreadful command? Oh, tell me!
Do not forget. This visitation Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. But look, amazement on thy mother sits. O step between her and her fighting soul. Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works. Speak to her, Hamlet.
Don’t forget. This visit Is only to sharpen your almost dull purpose. But look, your mother is in shock. Step between her and her struggling soul. Imagination works strongest in the weakest bodies. Speak to her, Hamlet.
How is it with you, lady?
How are you, lady?
Alas, how is’t with you, That you do bend your eye on vacancy, And with the incorporal air do hold discourse? Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep, And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm, Your bedded hairs, like life in excrements, Start up and stand an end. O gentle son, Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look?
Oh, how are you, That you stare into thin air, And speak to nothing but the empty space? Your eyes wildly dart around, And like soldiers waking to an alarm, Your hair stands on end, like life in filth, Rising up. Oh, my dear son, In the heat of your madness, Sprinkle some patience. What are you looking at?
On him, on him! Look you how pale he glares, His form and cause conjoin’d, preaching to stones, Would make them capable.—Do not look upon me, Lest with this piteous action you convert My stern effects. Then what I have to do Will want true colour; tears perchance for blood.
At him, at him! Look how pale he looks, His body and his cause together, preaching to rocks, Would make them understand.—Don’t look at me, Lest this sad scene change My serious purpose. Then what I have to do Might seem like tears instead of blood.
To whom do you speak this?
Who are you talking to?
Do you see nothing there?
Can’t you see anything there?
Nothing at all; yet all that is I see.
Nothing at all; but I see everything else.
Nor did you nothing hear?
Didn’t you hear anything?
No, nothing but ourselves.
No, nothing but us.
Why, look you there! look how it steals away! My father, in his habit as he liv’d! Look where he goes even now out at the portal.
Look there! See how it’s slipping away! My father, just like he was when he lived! Look, he’s even now going out the door.
This is the very coinage of your brain. This bodiless creation ecstasy Is very cunning in.
This is just a trick of your mind. This unreal vision, this delirium Is very clever at what it does.
Ecstasy! My pulse as yours doth temperately keep time, And makes as healthful music. It is not madness That I have utter’d. Bring me to the test, And I the matter will re-word; which madness Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, Lay not that flattering unction to your soul That not your trespass, but my madness speaks. It will but skin and film the ulcerous place, Whilst rank corruption, mining all within, Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven, Repent what’s past, avoid what is to come; And do not spread the compost on the weeds, To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue; For in the fatness of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg, Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good.
Delirium!? My heart beats just like yours, And it’s just as healthy. It’s not madness That I’ve spoken. Test me, And I’ll explain everything again; madness Would run away from that. Mother, for heaven’s sake, Don’t flatter yourself with the idea That my madness is to blame for your sins. It will just cover up the wound, While the real rot, hidden inside, Spreads without being seen. Confess your sins to God, Repent for what’s past, avoid what’s to come; And don’t make things worse by trying to cover it up, To make it grow even more. Forgive me for my goodness; In these fat, indulgent times Even virtue has to ask forgiveness for its sins, And struggle to be allowed to do what’s right.
O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.
Oh Hamlet, you’ve split my heart in two.
O throw away the worser part of it, And live the purer with the other half. Good night. But go not to mine uncle’s bed. Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster custom, who all sense doth eat, Of habits evil, is angel yet in this, That to the use of actions fair and good He likewise gives a frock or livery That aptly is put on. Refrain tonight, And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence. The next more easy; For use almost can change the stamp of nature, And either curb the devil, or throw him out With wondrous potency. Once more, good night, And when you are desirous to be bles’d, I’ll blessing beg of you. For this same lord [
] I regret what I did; but heaven wanted it this way, To punish me with him, and him with me, So that I must be their instrument of punishment. I’ll deal with him, and take responsibility for his death. So again, good night. I must be cruel to be kind: Thus evil begins, and worse things are yet to come. One more thing, good lady.
] I do repent; but heaven hath pleas’d it so, To punish me with this, and this with me, That I must be their scourge and minister. I will bestow him, and will answer well The death I gave him. So again, good night. I must be cruel, only to be kind: Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind. One word more, good lady.
] I regret what I did; but heaven wanted it this way, To punish me with him, and him with me, So that I must be their instrument of punishment. I’ll deal with him, and take responsibility for his death. So again, good night. I must be cruel to be kind: Thus evil begins, and worse things are yet to come. One more thing, good lady.
What shall I do?
What should I do?
Not this, by no means, that I bid you do: Let the bloat King tempt you again to bed, Pinch wanton on your cheek, call you his mouse, And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses, Or paddling in your neck with his damn’d fingers, Make you to ravel all this matter out, That I essentially am not in madness, But mad in craft.’Twere good you let him know, For who that’s but a queen, fair, sober, wise, Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib, Such dear concernings hide? Who would do so? No, in despite of sense and secrecy, Unpeg the basket on the house’s top, Let the birds fly, and like the famous ape, To try conclusions, in the basket creep And break your own neck down.
Not this, by any means! Don’t let the fat king tempt you back to bed, Pinch you on the cheek, call you his little mouse, And for a couple of nasty kisses, Or touching your neck with his dirty fingers, Make you tell everyone that I’m not really mad, But just pretending to be. It would be good if you told him, Because who, being a queen, beautiful, sober, and wise, Would hide such important matters from a toad, a bat, or a fool? Who would do that? No, in spite of reason and secrecy, Let the lid come off the basket, Let the birds fly out, and like the famous ape, Go inside the basket to try conclusions And break your neck.
Be thou assur’d, if words be made of breath, And breath of life, I have no life to breathe What thou hast said to me.
If words are made of breath, And breath comes from life, I have no life left to breathe What you’ve said to me.
I must to England, you know that?
I have to go to England, you know that?
Alack, I had forgot.’Tis so concluded on.
Oh no, I had forgotten. It’s all been decided.
There’s letters seal’d: and my two schoolfellows, Whom I will trust as I will adders fang’d,— They bear the mandate, they must sweep my way And marshal me to knavery. Let it work; For’tis the sport to have the enginer Hoist with his own petard, and’t shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon. O,’tis most sweet, When in one line two crafts directly meet. This man shall set me packing. I’ll lug the guts into the neighbour room. Mother, good night. Indeed, this counsellor Is now most still, most secret, and most grave, Who was in life a foolish peating knave. Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you. Good night, mother.
Letters are sealed, and my two schoolmates, Who I trust as much as I would trust a poisonous snake— They’re carrying the orders. They must clear my way And guide me into treachery. Let it happen; Because it’s fun when the schemer gets caught By his own trap, and I’ll dig one yard deeper than they planned And blow them to the moon. Oh, it’s so sweet, When two tricks meet head-on in one line. This man will make me leave. I’ll drag his guts into the next room. Mother, good night. Actually, this counselor Is now quiet, secretive, and serious, Who, in life, was just a foolish, talkative fool. Come, sir, time to finish things with you. Good night, mother.