Hamlet Page #2

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For all, our thanks.

Now follows, that you know,

young Fortinbras,

holding a weak supposal

of our worth,

or thinking by our late

dear brother's death

our state to be disjoint

and out of frame,

he hath not fail'd

to pester us with message,

importing the surrender

of those lands

lost by his father,

with all bonds of law,

to our most valiant brother.

So much for him.

Thus much the business is.

We have here writ

We have here writ

To Norway,

uncle of young Fortinbras,

that he suppress

his nephew's further march

and threatening enterprise

against our state.

And we here dispatch you,

good Cornelia,

and Voltimand as our ambassadors

to old Norway.

In that and in all things

we show our duty.

We doubt it nothing.

Heartily farewell.

And now, Laertes,

what's the news with you?

You told us of some suit -

what is't, Laertes?

LAUGHTER:

You cannot speak of reason

to the Dane

and lose your voice.

My dread lord,

your leave and favour

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,

ny thoughts and wishes

bend again toward France

and bow them

to your gracious leave and pardon.

Have you your father's leave?

What says Polonius?

He hath, my lord,

wrung from me my slow leave.

I do beseech you,

give him leave to go.

Take thy fair hour, Laertes -

time be thine,

and thy best graces

spend it at thy will!

But now,

our cousin Hamlet, and our son.

A little more than kin,

and less than kind.

How is it that the clouds

still hang on you?

Not so, my lord,

I am too much i' the sun.

Good Hamlet,

cast thy nighted colour off,

and let thine eye

look like a friend on Denmark.

Do not for ever

with thy vail-ed lids

seek for thy noble father

in the dust.

Thou know'st 'tis common,

all that lives must die,

passing through nature to eternity.

Ay, madam, it is common. If it be,

why seems it

so particular with thee?

Seems, madam! Nay, it is,

I know not "seems".

'Tis not alone my inky cloak,

good mother,

nor customary suits of solemn black,

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.

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.

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