Hamlet. Macbeth / Гамлет. Макбет. Уильям Шекспир

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      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,

      Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath,

      No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,

      Nor the dejected haviour of the visage,

      Together with all forms, moods, shows 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 persevere

      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 unschool'd;

      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.

      Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet

      I pray thee stay with us; go not to Wittenberg.

      I shall in all my best obey you, madam.

      Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply.

      Be as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come;

      This gentle and unforc'd 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 heaven shall

                               bruit again,

      Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away.

      [Exeunt all but Hamlet]

      O that this too too solid flesh would melt,

      Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!

      Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd

      His canon 'gainst self-slaughter. O God! O God!

      How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable

      Seem to me all the uses of this world!

      Fie on't! Oh 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,

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