So excellent a king, that was to this Hyperion to a satyr. But two months dead-nay, not so much, not two. Things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. Oh, that this too, too sullied 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. So I beg you, please give in to my request and remain here, where you can bring joy and comfort-as the highest-ranking member of my court, my nephew, and now my son. As for your desire to return to Wittenberg, it’s not what I would want. Let the world understand: you are the next in line for the throne, and I feel as much love for you as any father feels for his son.
I ask you, give up your ceaseless mourning, and think of me as your new father. To a reasonable mind, it is absurd, since the death of fathers-from the first corpse until the most recent-is an inescapable theme of life. When we know that something must eventually happen-and that it happens to everyone-why should we get it into our heads to oppose it? Indeed! Acting this way is a crime against heaven, a crime against the dead, a crime against nature. It does not fit with God’s desires, and it indicates a too-soft heart, an undisciplined mind, and a general lack of knowledge. But to continue to mourn out of sheer stubbornness is blasphemous. But you must also remember that your father lost his father, who in turn lost his father, and each time the son had a duty to mourn for his father for a certain time. Hamlet, it is sweet and good that you mourn like this for your father. And we beseech you, bend you to remain Here in the cheer and comfort of our eye, Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son. For your intent In going back to school in Wittenberg, It is most retrograde to our desire.
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 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. It shows a will most incorrect to heaven, A heart unfortified, a mind impatient, An understanding simple and unschooled. But to persever In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness. 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. ‘Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, To give these mourning duties to your father. 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, Colleaguèd with the dream of his advantage, 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. Nor have we herein barred Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone With this affair along. 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. 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.
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