CORNELIUS and VOLTEMAND exit.
And now, Laertes, what’s the news with you? You told us of some suit. What is ’t, Laertes? You cannot speak of reason to the Dane And lose your voice. What wouldst thou beg, Laertes, That shall not be my offer, not thy asking? The head is not more native to the heart, The hand more instrumental to the mouth, Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father. What wouldst thou have, Laertes?
And now, Laertes, what’s your news? You mentioned that you have a favor to ask of me. What is it, Laertes? You’ll never be wasting your words by making a reasonable request of the King of Denmark. What could you possibly ask for that I wouldn’t give you? Your father is as vital to the Danish throne as the head is to the heart, or the hand to the mouth. What do you want, Laertes?
My dread lord, Your leave and favor to return to France, From whence though willingly I came to Denmark To show my duty in your coronation, Yet now, I must confess, that duty done, My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon.
My powerful lord, I’d like your permission to go back to France. Though I came willingly to Denmark to show my loyalty at your coronation, now that my duty is done, I must admit that my thoughts are once more directed toward France. I hope you will give me your permission to go.
Have you your father’s leave? What says Polonius?
Do you have your father’s permission? What does Polonius say?
He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave By laborsome petition, and at last Upon his will I sealed my hard consent. I do beseech you, give him leave to go.
My lord, he has won my permission by asking me over and over again so that, finally, I reluctantly gave my approval. I ask you to please give him permission to go.
Take thy fair hour, Laertes. Time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will.— But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son—
Leave when you like, Laertes. Your time is your own, to be spent however you want. And now, Hamlet, my nephew and my son—
[aside] A little more than kin and less than kind.
[To himself] I’m more closely related to you than I used to be, but without any feelings of affection.
How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
Why are you so gloomy that it seems like you are covered by clouds?
Not so, my lord. I am too much i’ the sun.
Not at all, my lord. The problem is that I am covered in sun .
Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off, And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. Do not forever with thy vailèd lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust. Thou know’st ’tis common. All that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.
Dearest Hamlet, stop wearing these black clothes, and look upon the King of Denmark as a friend. You can’t spend your whole life with your eyes aimed down at the ground, looking for your noble father in the dust. You know it’s common. Everything that lives must die, passing from nature to heaven.
Ay, madam, it is common.
Yes, madam, it is common.
If it be, Why seems it so particular with thee?
If that’s so, why does it seem like such an issue to you?
“Seems,” madam? Nay, it is. I know not “seems.” ‘Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected ‘havior of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly. These indeed “seem,” For they are actions that a man might play. But I have that within which passeth show, These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
“Seem,” mother? No, it is . I don’t know the meaning of “seems.” Good mother, the black clothes I wear each day, my heavy sighs, the tears from my eyes, the sadness visible in my face, or any other show of grief cannot capture what I actually feel. All these things “seem” like grief, since they’re just what a person would do to act like they were grieving in a play. But inside of me I have real grief, of which these clothes and displays of grief are just an outward representation.
‘Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, To give these mourning duties to your father. But you must know your father lost a father, That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound In filial obligation for some term To do obsequious sorrow. But to persever In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness. ‘Tis unmanly grief. It shows a will most incorrect to heaven, A heart unfortified, a mind impatient, An understanding simple and unschooled. For what we know must be and is as common As any the most vulgar thing to sense, Why should we in our peevish opposition Take it to heart? Fie! ‘Tis a fault to heaven, A fault against the dead, a fault to nature, To reason most absurd, whose common theme Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried, From the first corse till he that died today, “This must be so.” We pray you, throw to earth This unprevailing woe, and think of us As of a father. For let the world take note, You are the most immediate to our throne, And with no less nobility of love Than that which dearest father bears his son Do I impart toward you. For your intent In going back to school in Wittenberg, It is most retrograde to our desire. And we beseech you, bend you to remain Here in the cheer and comfort of our eye, Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.
Hamlet, it is sweet and good that you mourn like this for your father. But you must also remember that your father lost his father, who in turn lost his father, and each time the son had a duty to mourn for his father for a certain time. But to continue to mourn out of sheer stubbornness is blasphemous. It isn’t manly. It does not fit with God’s desires, and it indicates a too-soft heart, an undisciplined mind, and a general lack of knowledge. When we know that something must eventually happen—and that it happens to everyone—why should we get it into our heads to oppose it? Indeed! Acting this way is a crime against heaven, a crime against the dead, a crime against nature. To a reasonable mind, it is absurd, since the death of fathers—from the first corpse until the most recent—is an inescapable theme of life. I ask you, give up your ceaseless mourning, and think of me as your new father. Let the world understand: you are the next in line for the throne, and I feel as much love for you as any father feels for his son. As for your desire to return to Wittenberg, it’s not what I would want. So I beg you, please give in to my request and remain here, where you can bring joy and comfort—as the highest-ranking member of my court, my nephew, and now my son.
Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet. I pray thee, stay with us. Go not to Wittenberg.
Please don’t let my prayers be in vain, Hamlet. I beg you, stay with us. Don’t return to Wittenberg.
I shall in all my best obey you, madam.
I’ll obey you as best I can, madam.
Why, ’tis a loving and a fair reply. Be as ourself in Denmark. —Madam, come. This gentle and unforced accord of Hamlet Sits smiling to my heart, in grace whereof No jocund health that Denmark drinks today But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell, And the king’s rouse the heavens shall bruit again, Respeaking earthly thunder. Come away.
That loving response is what I hoped for: stay with us in Denmark.
[To GERTRUDE] My dear wife, come. Hamlet’s easy willingness to stay has made me glad, and in honor of it, every happy toast I’ll drink today will sound like cannons up to the clouds above. My drinking will echo against the heavens like thunder. Come on.
Trumpets play. Everyone except HAMLET exits.
Trumpets play. Everyone except HAMLET exits.
Oh, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew, Or that the Everlasting had not fixed His canon ‘gainst self-slaughter! O God, God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on ’t, ah fie! ‘Tis an unweeded garden That grows to seed. Things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this. But two months dead—nay, not so much, not two. So excellent a king, that was to this Hyperion to a satyr. So loving to my mother That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly.—Heaven and earth, Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on, and yet, within a month— Let me not think on ’t. Frailty, thy name is woman!— A little month, or ere those shoes were old With which she followed my poor father’s body, Like Niobe, all tears. Why she, even she— O God, a beast that wants discourse of reason Would have mourned longer!—married with my uncle, My father’s brother, but no more like my father Than I to Hercules. Within a month, Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her gallèd eyes, She married. O most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! It is not nor it cannot come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
Oh, if only my dirty flesh would melt and then evaporate into a dew, or that God had not outlawed suicide. Oh God, God! How tired, stale, dull, and worthless all of life seems to me. Curse it! Yes, curse it! It’s like an untended garden, growing wild. Nasty, gross weeds cover it completely. That it has come to this point. My father, dead for just two months—no, not even that much, not two. A king so excellent, in comparison to Claudius he was like a god compared to a goat . My father was so loving toward my mother that he would not let the wind blow too hard on her face. Heaven above, must I remember? She would hang on his arm, as if the more time she spent with him, the more she wanted to be with him. And yet, within a month of my father’s death—no, don’t think about it. Women, curse your weakness!—in just a month, before she had even broken in the shoes she wore to his funeral, weeping endlessly —oh, God, a wild beast would have mourned longer than she did!—she married my uncle, my father’s brother, who’s no more like my father than I’m like Hercules . Within a month of my father’s death—before the salt from her crocodile tears had washed out of her red eyes—she remarried. Oh, what wicked speed! To jump so quickly into a bed of incest! It is not good, and will not lead to any good either. But my heart must break in silence, because I must remain quiet
HORATIO, MARCELLUS, and BARNARDO enter.