Original
Modern English
Go, Captain, from me greet the Danish king. Tell him that by his license, Fortinbras Craves the conveyance of a promis’d march Over his kingdom. You know the rendezvous. If that his Majesty would aught with us, We shall express our duty in his eye; And let him know so.
Go, Captain, greet the Danish king for me. Tell him that with his permission, Fortinbras Asks for permission to march through his land On his way to Poland. You know the meeting place. If his Majesty needs anything from us, We will show our respect to him directly; And let him know that.
I will do’t, my lord.
I’ll do it, my lord.
Go softly on.
Move quietly.
.
.
Good sir, whose powers are these?
Good sir, whose army is that?
They are of Norway, sir.
They are from Norway, sir.
How purpos’d, sir, I pray you?
What’s their goal, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?
Against some part of Poland.
They’re going to attack part of Poland.
Who commands them, sir?
Who is leading them, sir?
The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras.
The nephew of old King Norway, Fortinbras.
Goes it against the main of Poland, sir, Or for some frontier?
Are they attacking the main part of Poland, sir, Or just the borders?
Truly to speak, and with no addition, We go to gain a little patch of ground That hath in it no profit but the name. To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it; Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee.
To be honest, without exaggerating, We’re going to capture a small piece of land That has no value except for its name. I wouldn’t even pay five ducats to farm it; It wouldn’t bring a higher price to Norway or Poland If it were sold outright.
Why, then the Polack never will defend it.
Well, then the Polish will never defend it.
Yes, it is already garrison’d.
Yes, it’s already being guarded.
Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducats Will not debate the question of this straw! This is th’imposthume of much wealth and peace, That inward breaks, and shows no cause without Why the man dies. I humbly thank you, sir.
Two thousand lives and twenty thousand ducats Won’t change the importance of this insignificant thing! This is the result of too much wealth and peace, Which causes internal decay, without any visible reason For why the person dies. Thank you, sir.
God b’wi’you, sir.
God be with you, sir.
Will’t please you go, my lord?
Will you come, my lord?
I’ll be with you straight. Go a little before.
I’ll be with you in a moment. Go ahead a little.
How all occasions do inform against me, And spur my dull revenge. What is a man If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and godlike reason To fust in us unus’d. Now whether it be Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple Of thinking too precisely on th’event,— A thought which, quarter’d, hath but one part wisdom And ever three parts coward,—I do not know Why yet I live to say this thing’s to do, Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means To do’t. Examples gross as earth exhort me, Witness this army of such mass and charge, Led by a delicate and tender prince, Whose spirit, with divine ambition puff’d, Makes mouths at the invisible event, Exposing what is mortal and unsure To all that fortune, death, and danger dare, Even for an eggshell. Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour’s at the stake. How stand I then, That have a father kill’d, a mother stain’d, Excitements of my reason and my blood, And let all sleep, while to my shame I see The imminent death of twenty thousand men That, for a fantasy and trick of fame, Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, Which is not tomb enough and continent To hide the slain? O, from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth.
How everything seems to turn against me, And pushes me to take action. What is a man If the main purpose of his time Is just to sleep and eat? A beast, nothing more. Surely the one who made us with such great thought, Able to look both ahead and behind, didn’t give us That capacity and godlike reason To waste away unused. Now, whether it’s Mindless forgetfulness, or some cowardly hesitation From overthinking the outcome,— A thought that’s only a little wise But mostly just fear,—I don’t know Why I still live to say something needs to be done, When I have the reason, the will, the strength, and the means To do it. Clear examples like the earth itself push me, Look at this army, with such force and power, Led by a gentle and kind prince, Whose spirit, filled with divine ambition, Mocking the unseen outcome, Exposes what’s mortal and uncertain To all that fate, death, and danger threaten, Even for something as trivial as an eggshell. To be truly great Is not to act without good reason, But to find a reason to fight even over something as small As a piece of straw when honor is at stake. So how do I stand, Having a father killed, a mother shamed, With my emotions and blood stirred, And yet letting everything be, while I shamefully watch The imminent death of twenty thousand men Who, for some illusion or a trick of fame, Go to their graves like they’re going to bed, fighting for a piece Of land where the numbers can’t prove who’s right, Which isn’t even a large enough tomb to bury the dead? Oh, from now on, My thoughts will be bloody or they won’t be worth anything.