Original
Modern English
I will not speak with her.
I will not speak with her.
She is importunate, indeed distract. Her mood will needs be pitied.
She’s being persistent, and really out of her mind. She’s in a mood that makes you feel sorry for her.
What would she have?
What does she want?
She speaks much of her father; says she hears There’s tricks i’th’world, and hems, and beats her heart, Spurns enviously at straws, speaks things in doubt, That carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts, Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. ’Twere good she were spoken with, for she may strew Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.
She talks a lot about her father; says she hears That there are tricks in the world, and sighs, and clutches her chest, Kicks at nothing in anger, says strange things, That don’t really make sense. Her words don’t add up, But the way she uses them makes people think There’s meaning behind them; they try to make sense of it, And twist the words to fit their own ideas, Which, based on her looks, and nods, and gestures, Really makes you think there’s something behind it, Though you can’t be sure, it certainly seems troubling. It would be good if someone spoke with her, because she could be spreading Dangerous ideas in the minds of people with bad intentions.
Let her come in.
Let her come in.
To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is, Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss. So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
To my troubled soul, just like sin’s true nature, Even the smallest thing seems to lead to something terrible. Guilt is so full of innocent jealousy, It destroys itself by being afraid of being exposed.
.
.
Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark?
Where is the beautiful Queen of Denmark?
How now, Ophelia?
How are you, Ophelia?
[
] How can I tell your true love From another man? By his seashell hat and walking stick And his wooden shoes.
] How should I your true love know From another one? By his cockle bat and staff And his sandal shoon.
] How can I tell your true love From another man? By his seashell hat and walking stick And his wooden shoes.
Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?
Oh dear, sweet lady, what does this song mean?
Say you? Nay, pray you mark. [
] He’s dead and gone, lady, He’s dead and gone, At his head a patch of grass, At his feet a stone.
] He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone, At his head a grass green turf, At his heels a stone.
] He’s dead and gone, lady, He’s dead and gone, At his head a patch of grass, At his feet a stone.
Nay, but Ophelia—
No, but Ophelia—
Pray you mark. [
] White as the snow is his burial shroud.
] White his shroud as the mountain snow.
] White as the snow is his burial shroud.
.
.
Alas, look here, my lord!
Oh my, look here, my lord!
[
] Covered all with sweet flowers; Which wept all the way to the grave With true-love tears.
] Larded all with sweet flowers; Which bewept to the grave did go With true-love showers.
] Covered all with sweet flowers; Which wept all the way to the grave With true-love tears.
How do you, pretty lady?
How are you, pretty lady?
Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker’s daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table!
Well, God help you! They say the owl was a baker’s daughter. Lord, we know who we are, but don’t know who we might become. God be with you at your table!
Conceit upon her father.
A fancy about her father.
Pray you, let’s have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, say you this: [
] Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s Day, Early in the morning, And I, a young woman, at your window, To be your Valentine.
] Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day, All in the morning betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine.
] Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s Day, Early in the morning, And I, a young woman, at your window, To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose and donn’d his clothes, And dupp’d the chamber door, Let in the maid, that out a maid Never departed more.
Then he got up, put on his clothes, And locked the chamber door, Let in the maid, who left a maid Never to leave again.
Pretty Ophelia!
Pretty Ophelia!
Indeed la, without an oath, I’ll make an end on’t. [
] By God and by Saint Charity, Alas, and shame on them! Young men will do it if they get the chance; By God, they are to blame.
] By Gis and by Saint Charity, Alack, and fie for shame! Young men will do’t if they come to’t; By Cock, they are to blame.
] By God and by Saint Charity, Alas, and shame on them! Young men will do it if they get the chance; By God, they are to blame.
Quoth she, before you tumbled me, You promis’d me to wed. So would I ha’done, by yonder sun, An thou hadst not come to my bed.
She said, before you slept with me, You promised to marry me. I would have done the same, by the sun, If you hadn’t come to my bed.
How long hath she been thus?
How long has she been like this?
I hope all will be well. We must be patient. But I cannot choose but weep, to think they would lay him i’th’cold ground. My brother shall know of it. And so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night.
I hope everything will be okay. We must be patient. But I can’t help but cry, thinking they would bury him in the cold ground. My brother will hear about this. And thank you for your good advice. Come, my carriage! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night.
Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.
Follow her closely; watch her carefully, please.
O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father’s death. O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions. First, her father slain; Next, your son gone; and he most violent author Of his own just remove; the people muddied, Thick and and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers For good Polonius’death; and we have done but greenly In hugger-mugger to inter him. Poor Ophelia Divided from herself and her fair judgment, Without the which we are pictures or mere beasts. Last, and as much containing as all these, Her brother is in secret come from France, Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds, And wants not buzzers to infect his ear With pestilent speeches of his father’s death, Wherein necessity, of matter beggar’d, Will nothing stick our person to arraign In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this, Like to a murdering piece, in many places Gives me superfluous death.
O, this is the poison of deep sorrow; it all comes From her father’s death. O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they don’t come alone, But in armies. First, her father killed; Then, your son gone; and he the most violent cause Of his own untimely death; the people stirred, Confused and unhealthy in their thoughts and gossip Over Polonius’ death; and we’ve done poorly In secretly burying him. Poor Ophelia, Split from herself and her good judgment, Without which we are no better than pictures or animals. Finally, and as bad as all of this, Her brother has secretly come back from France, Living in his confusion, keeping to himself, And is surrounded by people who infect his mind With harmful talk about his father’s death, Where the urgency of the situation, lacking substance, Will have nothing stick to our reputation. O my dear Gertrude, this, Like a killing weapon, in so many ways Brings me needless death.
Alack, what noise is this?
Oh no, what’s that noise?
Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door.
Where are my guards? Get them to watch the door.
.
.
What is the matter?
What’s going on?
Save yourself, my lord. The ocean, overpeering of his list, Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste Than young Laertes, in a riotous head, O’erbears your offices. The rabble call him lord, And, as the world were now but to begin, Antiquity forgot, custom not known, The ratifiers and props of every word, They cry‘Choose we! Laertes shall be king!’ Caps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the clouds, ‘Laertes shall be king, Laertes king.’
Save yourself, my lord. The ocean, rising up and threatening its shores, Moves faster than young Laertes, in a furious rush, Overpowers everything you do. The crowd calls him lord, And it’s as if the world is starting over, Forgetting the past, not knowing tradition, The people who used to uphold every word, They shout, ‘Let’s choose! Laertes shall be king!’ Hats, hands, and voices cheer and shout it to the heavens, ‘Laertes shall be king, Laertes king.’
How cheerfully on the false trail they cry. O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs.
How eagerly they cheer for this fake cause. Oh, this is treason, you false Danish dogs.
The doors are broke.
The doors are broken.
Where is this king?—Sirs, stand you all without.
Where is the king?—Everyone, stay outside.
Danes. No, let’s come in.
Danes. No, let’s go in.
I pray you, give me leave.
Please, let me through.
DANES. We will, we will.
DANES. We will, we will.
I thank you. Keep the door. O thou vile king, Give me my father.
Thank you. Keep the door shut. Oh, you vile king, Give me my father.
Calmly, good Laertes.
Calm down, good Laertes.
That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me bastard; Cries cuckold to my father, brands the harlot Even here between the chaste unsmirched brow Of my true mother.
That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me bastard; A calm blood shows that I’m a bastard; Cries cuckold to my father, brands the harlot It calls my father a cuckold, marks my mother as a whore Even here between the chaste unsmirched brow Even here, in front of my pure, innocent mother Of my true mother. Of my real mother.
What is the cause, Laertes, That thy rebellion looks so giant-like?— Let him go, Gertrude. Do not fear our person. There’s such divinity doth hedge a king, That treason can but peep to what it would, Acts little of his will.—Tell me, Laertes, Why thou art thus incens’d.—Let him go, Gertrude:— Speak, man.
What is the cause, Laertes, What’s making you act like this, Laertes, That thy rebellion looks so giant-like?— That your rebellion seems so huge?— Let him go, Gertrude. Do not fear our person. Let him go, Gertrude. Don’t be afraid of me. There’s such divinity doth hedge a king, Kings are so protected by divine power, That treason can but peep to what it would, That treason can only try to do what it wants, Acts little of his will.—Tell me, Laertes, But doesn’t succeed.—Tell me, Laertes, Why thou art thus incens’d.—Let him go, Gertrude:— Why are you so angry?—Let him go, Gertrude:— Speak, man. Speak, man.
Where is my father?
Where is my father? Where is my father?
Dead.
Dead. He’s dead.
But not by him.
But not by him. But not by his hand.
Let him demand his fill.
Let him demand his fill. Let him ask whatever he wants.
How came he dead? I’ll not be juggled with. To hell, allegiance! Vows, to the blackest devil! Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation. To this point I stand, That both the worlds, I give to negligence, Let come what comes; only I’ll be reveng’d Most throughly for my father.
How came he dead? I’ll not be juggled with. How did he die? I won’t be tricked. To hell, allegiance! Vows, to the blackest devil! To hell with loyalty! Vows, to the worst devil! Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit! Conscience and mercy, to the deepest pit! I dare damnation. To this point I stand, I’m ready for damnation. I’m at this point, That both the worlds, I give to negligence, I’ll give up both worlds to carelessness, Let come what comes; only I’ll be reveng’d Whatever happens, I just want to be thoroughly avenged Most throughly for my father. For my father, completely.
Who shall stay you?
Who shall stay you? Who can stop you?
My will, not all the world. And for my means, I’ll husband them so well, They shall go far with little.
My will, not all the world. My will, not even the world. And for my means, I’ll husband them so well, And I’ll manage my resources so well, They shall go far with little. They’ll go a long way with little.
Good Laertes, If you desire to know the certainty Of your dear father’s death, is’t writ in your revenge That, sweepstake, you will draw both friend and foe, Winner and loser?
Good Laertes, Good Laertes, If you desire to know the certainty If you want to know for sure Of your dear father’s death, is’t writ in your revenge If it’s written in your revenge That, sweepstake, you will draw both friend and foe, That, like a lottery, you’ll take both friends and enemies, Winner and loser? Whether they win or lose?
None but his enemies.
None but his enemies. Only his enemies.
Will you know them then?
Will you know them then? Do you want to know who they are?
To his good friends thus wide I’ll ope my arms; And, like the kind life-rendering pelican, Repast them with my blood.
To his good friends thus wide I’ll ope my arms; To his good friends, I’ll open my arms wide; And, like the kind life-rendering pelican, And, like a kind, life-giving pelican, Repast them with my blood. I’ll feed them with my blood.
Why, now you speak Like a good child and a true gentleman. That I am guiltless of your father’s death, And am most sensibly in grief for it, It shall as level to your judgment’pear As day does to your eye.
Why, now you speak Now you speak Like a good child and a true gentleman. Like a good son and a true gentleman. That I am guiltless of your father’s death, I’m innocent of your father’s death, And am most sensibly in grief for it, And I’m deeply sorry for it, It shall as level to your judgment’pear It will be as clear to you As day does to your eye. As daylight is to your eye.
DANES. [
] Let her come in.
] Let her come in.
] Let her come in.
How now! What noise is that?
How now! What noise is that? What’s that noise?
O heat, dry up my brains. Tears seven times salt, Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye. By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight, Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May! Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! O heavens, is’t possible a young maid’s wits Should be as mortal as an old man’s life? Nature is fine in love, and where’tis fine, It sends some precious instance of itself After the thing it loves.
Oh heat, dry up my brains. Tears seven times salt, Burn out the sense and virtue of my eye. By heaven, your madness will be paid for in full, Until our scale tips the balance. Oh rose of May! Dear girl, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! Oh heavens, is it possible for a young woman’s mind To be as fragile as an old man’s life? Nature is beautiful in love, and when it’s beautiful, It sends some precious part of itself After the thing it loves.
[
] They carried him on the bier with his face bare, Hey no nonny, nonny, hey nonny And on his grave, many tears fell.— Farewell, my dove!
] They bore him barefac’d on the bier, Hey no nonny, nonny, hey nonny And on his grave rain’d many a tear.— Fare you well, my dove!
] They carried him on the bier with his face bare, Hey no nonny, nonny, hey nonny And on his grave, many tears fell.— Farewell, my dove!
Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, It could not move thus.
If you were thinking clearly, and were planning revenge, It wouldn’t come out like this.
You must sing‘Down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.’O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward that stole his master’s daughter.
You must sing ‘Down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.’ Oh, how the song fits! It’s the dishonest steward who stole his master’s daughter.
This nothing’s more than matter.
This is nonsense.
There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray love, remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.
Here’s rosemary, that’s for remembering; please, love, remember. And here are pansies, that’s for thoughts.
A document in madness, thoughts and remembrance fitted.
A crazy person’s token, thoughts and memories put together.
There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you; and here’s some for me. We may call it herb of grace o’Sundays. O you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all when my father died. They say he made a good end. [
] For sweet, handsome Robin is my only joy.
] For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
] For sweet, handsome Robin is my only joy.
Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself She turns to favour and to prettiness.
Thoughts and sorrow, passion, hell itself She turns into beauty and charm.
[
] And will he not come back? And will he not come back? No, no, he is dead, Go to your deathbed, He will never come back.
] And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead, Go to thy death-bed, He never will come again.
] And will he not come back? And will he not come back? No, no, he is dead, Go to your deathbed, He will never come back.
His beard was as white as snow, All flaxen was his poll. He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan. God ha’mercy on his soul.
His beard was as white as snow, His hair was as blonde as flax. He’s gone, he’s gone, And we must stop mourning. God have mercy on his soul.
And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God b’wi’ye.
And for all Christian souls, I pray to God. God be with you.
Do you see this, O God?
Do you see this, Oh God?
Laertes, I must commune with your grief, Or you deny me right. Go but apart, Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will, And they shall hear and judge’twixt you and me. If by direct or by collateral hand They find us touch’d, we will our kingdom give, Our crown, our life, and all that we call ours To you in satisfaction; but if not, Be you content to lend your patience to us, And we shall jointly labour with your soul To give it due content.
Laertes, I must speak with you about your grief, Or you’ll deny me my right. Step aside, Choose the wisest of your friends, And they will hear and judge between you and me. If by direct or indirect means They find us guilty, we will give you our kingdom, Our crown, our life, and all we call ours In satisfaction; but if not, Be patient with us, And we will work together with your soul To bring you peace.
Let this be so; His means of death, his obscure burial,— No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o’er his bones, No noble rite, nor formal ostentation,— Cry to be heard, as’twere from heaven to earth, That I must call’t in question.
Let this be so; His means of death, his obscure burial,— No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o’er his bones, No noble rite, nor formal ostentation,— Cry to be heard, as’twere from heaven to earth, That I must call’t in question.
So you shall. And where th’offence is let the great axe fall. I pray you go with me.
Fine, I agree. And where the crime is, let the great axe fall. I ask you to come with me.