Act I, Scene 2 — The Court of Denmark

Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death the memory be green, and that it us befitted to bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom to be contracted in one brow of woe, yet so far hath discretion fought with nature that we with wisest sorrow think on him together with remembrance of ourselves. Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen, th' imperial jointress to this warlike state, have we, as 'twere with a defeated joy, with an auspicious and a dropping eye, with mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage, in equal scale weighing delight and dole, taken to wife. Nor have we herein barred your better wisdoms, which have freely gone with this affair along. 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 failed 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.

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?

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, my 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 by laboursome petition, and at last upon his will I sealed my hard consent. 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, my cousin Hamlet, and my 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 in 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 vailed 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, nor windy suspiration of forced breath, no, nor the fruitful river in the eye, nor the dejected haviour 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 passes 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, 'tis unmanly grief. 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.

We beseech you, bend you to remain here in the cheer and comfort of our eye, our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.

I shall in all my best obey you, madam.

O, that this too, too solid 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 galled 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.

Hail to your lordship!

I am glad to see you well. Horatio—or I do forget myself!

The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever.

Sir, my good friend, I'll change that name with you. And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?

My lord, I came to see your father's funeral.

I prithee do not mock me, fellow student. I think it was to see my mother's wedding.

Indeed, my lord, it followed hard upon.

Thrift, thrift, Horatio. The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven or ever I had seen that day, Horatio! My father—methinks I see my father.

Where, my lord?

In my mind's eye, Horatio.

My lord, I think I saw him yesternight.

Saw? Who?

My lord, the King your father.

The King my father?

Season your admiration for a while with an attent ear, till I may deliver, upon the witness of these gentlemen, this marvel to you.

For God's love, let me hear!

Two nights together had these gentlemen, Marcellus and Barnardo, on their watch, in the dead waste and middle of the night, been thus encountered: a figure like your father, armed at point exactly, cap-a-pie, appears before them, and with solemn march goes slow and stately by them. Thrice he walked by their oppressed and fear-surprised eyes within his truncheon's length, whilst they, distilled almost to jelly with the act of fear, stand dumb and speak not to him. This to me in dreadful secrecy impart they did, and I with them the third night kept the watch, where, as they had delivered, both in time, form of the thing, each word made true and good, the apparition comes.

My father's spirit—in arms! All is not well. I doubt some foul play. Would the night were come! Till then sit still, my soul. Foul deeds will rise, though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.