Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Уильям Шекспир

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СКАЧАТЬ wilt thou lead me? Speak, I’ll go no further.

      GHOST.

       Mark me.

      HAMLET.

       I will.

      GHOST.

       My hour is almost come,

       When I to sulph’rous and tormenting flames

       Must render up myself.

      HAMLET.

       Alas, poor ghost!

      GHOST.

       Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing

       To what I shall unfold.

      HAMLET.

       Speak, I am bound to hear.

      GHOST.

       So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.

      HAMLET.

       What?

      GHOST.

       I am thy father’s spirit,

       Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night,

       And for the day confin’d to fast in fires,

       Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature

       Are burnt and purg’d away. But that I am forbid

       To tell the secrets of my prison-house,

       I could a tale unfold whose lightest word

       Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood,

       Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres,

       Thy knotted and combined locks to part,

       And each particular hair to stand on end

       Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.

       But this eternal blazon must not be

       To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O, list!

       If thou didst ever thy dear father love—

      HAMLET.

       O God!

      GHOST.

       Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.

      HAMLET.

       Murder!

      GHOST.

       Murder most foul, as in the best it is;

       But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

      HAMLET.

       Haste me to know’t, that I, with wings as swift

       As meditation or the thoughts of love

       May sweep to my revenge.

      GHOST.

       I find thee apt;

       And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed

       That rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf,

       Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear.

       ’Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard,

       A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of Denmark

       Is by a forged process of my death

       Rankly abus’d; but know, thou noble youth,

       The serpent that did sting thy father’s life

       Now wears his crown.

      HAMLET.

       O my prophetic soul!

       Mine uncle!

      GHOST.

       Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,

       With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts—

       O wicked wit, and gifts, that have the power

       So to seduce!—won to his shameful lust

       The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen.

       O Hamlet, what a falling off was there,

       From me, whose love was of that dignity

       That it went hand in hand even with the vow

       I made to her in marriage; and to decline

       Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor

       To those of mine. But virtue, as it never will be mov’d,

       Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven;

       So lust, though to a radiant angel link’d,

       Will sate itself in a celestial bed

       And prey on garbage.

       But soft! methinks I scent the morning air;

       Brief let me be. Sleeping within my orchard,

       My custom always of the afternoon,

       Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole

       With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial,

       And in the porches of my ears did pour

       The leperous distilment, whose effect

       Holds such an enmity with blood of man

       That swift as quicksilver it courses through

       The natural gates and alleys of the body;

       And with a sudden vigour it doth posset

       And curd, like eager droppings into milk,

       The thin and wholesome blood. So did it mine;

       And a most instant tetter bark’d about,

       Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust

       All my smooth body.

       Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother’s hand,

       Of life, of crown, of queen at once dispatch’d:

       Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin,

       Unhous’led, disappointed, unanel’d;

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