The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Уильям Шекспир

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          Why such impress of shipwrights, whose sore task

          Does not divide the Sunday from the week.

          What might be toward, that this sweaty haste

          Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day?

          Who is't that can inform me?

        Hor. That can I.

          At least, the whisper goes so. Our last king,

          Whose image even but now appear'd to us,

          Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway,

          Thereto prick'd on by a most emulate pride,

          Dar'd to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet

          (For so this side of our known world esteem'd him)

          Did slay this Fortinbras; who, by a seal'd compact,

          Well ratified by law and heraldry,

          Did forfeit, with his life, all those his lands

          Which he stood seiz'd of, to the conqueror;

          Against the which a moiety competent

          Was gaged by our king; which had return'd

          To the inheritance of Fortinbras,

          Had he been vanquisher, as, by the same comart

          And carriage of the article design'd,

          His fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras,

          Of unimproved mettle hot and full,

          Hath in the skirts of Norway, here and there,

          Shark'd up a list of lawless resolutes,

          For food and diet, to some enterprise

          That hath a stomach in't; which is no other,

          As it doth well appear unto our state,

          But to recover of us, by strong hand

          And terms compulsatory, those foresaid lands

          So by his father lost; and this, I take it,

          Is the main motive of our preparations,

          The source of this our watch, and the chief head

          Of this post-haste and romage in the land.

        Ber. I think it be no other but e'en so.

          Well may it sort that this portentous figure

          Comes armed through our watch, so like the King

          That was and is the question of these wars.

        Hor. A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye.

          In the most high and palmy state of Rome,

          A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,

          The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead

          Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets;

          As stars with trains of fire, and dews of blood,

          Disasters in the sun; and the moist star

          Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands

          Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse.

          And even the like precurse of fierce events,

          As harbingers preceding still the fates

          And prologue to the omen coming on,

          Have heaven and earth together demonstrated

          Unto our climature and countrymen.

      Enter Ghost again.