Tragedies: The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Romeo and Juliet. Macbeth / Трагедии: Трагедия Гамлета, принца Датского. Ромео и Джульетта. Макбет

Scene III

A room in Polonius’s house.

Enter Laertes and Ophelia.

LAERTES.

My necessaries are embark’d. Farewell.

And, sister, as the winds give benefit

And convoy is assistant, do not sleep,

But let me hear from you.

OPHELIA.

Do you doubt that?

LAERTES.

For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour,

Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood;

A violet in the youth of primy nature,

Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting;

The perfume and suppliance of a minute;

No more.

OPHELIA.

No more but so?

LAERTES.

Think it no more.

For nature crescent does not grow alone

In thews and bulk; but as this temple waxes,

The inward service of the mind and soul

Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now,

And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch

The virtue of his will; but you must fear,

His greatness weigh’d, his will is not his own;

For he himself is subject to his birth:

He may not, as unvalu’d persons do,

Carve for himself; for on his choice depends

The sanctity and health of this whole state;

And therefore must his choice be circumscrib’d

Unto the voice and yielding of that body

Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you,

It fits your wisdom so far to believe it

As he in his particular act and place

May give his saying deed; which is no further

Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal.

Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain

If with too credent ear you list his songs,

Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open

To his unmaster’d importunity.

Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister;

And keep you in the rear of your affection,

Out of the shot and danger of desire.

The chariest maid is prodigal enough

If she unmask her beauty to the moon.

Virtue itself scopes not calumnious strokes:

The canker galls the infants of the spring

Too oft before their buttons be disclos’d,

And in the morn and liquid dew of youth

Contagious blastments are most imminent.

Be wary then, best safety lies in fear.

Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.

OPHELIA.

I shall th’effect of this good lesson keep

As watchman to my heart. But good my brother,

Do not as some ungracious pastors do,

Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven;

Whilst like a puff’d and reckless libertine

Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads,

And recks not his own rede.

LAERTES.

O, fear me not.

I stay too long. But here my father comes.

Enter Polonius.

A double blessing is a double grace;

Occasion smiles upon a second leave.

POLONIUS.

Yet here, Laertes? Aboard, aboard, for shame.

The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,

And you are stay’d for. There, my blessing with you.

[Laying his hand on Laertes’s head.]

And these few precepts in thy memory

Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,

Nor any unproportion’d thought his act.

Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.

Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,

Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel;

But do not dull thy palm with entertainment

Of each new-hatch’d, unfledg’d comrade. Beware

Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in,

Bear’t that th’opposed may beware of thee.

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice:

Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,

But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy:

For the apparel oft proclaims the man;

And they in France of the best rank and station

Are of a most select and generous chief in that.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be:

For loan oft loses both itself and friend;

And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

This above all: to thine own self be true;

And it must follow, as the night the day,

Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Farewell: my blessing season this in thee.

LAERTES.

Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.

POLONIUS.

The time invites you; go, your servants tend.

LAERTES.

Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well

What I have said to you.

OPHELIA.

’Tis in my memory lock’d,

And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

LAERTES.

Farewell.

[Exit.]

POLONIUS.

What is’t, Ophelia, he hath said to you?

OPHELIA.

So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.

POLONIUS.

Marry, well bethought:

’Tis told me he hath very oft of late

Given private time to you; and you yourself

Have of your audience been most free and bounteous.

If it be so, – as so ’tis put on me,

And that in way of caution, – I must tell you

You do not understand yourself so clearly

As it behoves my daughter and your honour.

What is between you? Give me up the truth.

OPHELIA.

He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders

Of his affection to me.

POLONIUS.

Affection! Pooh! You speak like a green girl,

Unsifted in such perilous circumstance.

Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?

OPHELIA.

I do not know, my lord, what I should think.

POLONIUS.

Marry, I’ll teach you; think yourself a baby;

That you have ta’en these tenders for true pay,

Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly;

Or, – not to crack the wind of the poor phrase,

Roaming it thus, – you’ll tender me a fool.

OPHELIA.

My lord, he hath importun’d me with love

In honourable fashion.

POLONIUS.

Ay, fashion you may call it; go to, go to.

OPHELIA.

And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord,

With almost all the holy vows of heaven.

POLONIUS.

Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know,

When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul

Lends the tongue vows: these blazes, daughter,

Giving more light than heat, extinct in both,

Even in their promise, as it is a-making,

You must not take for fire. From this time

Be something scanter of your maiden presence;

Set your entreatments at a higher rate

Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet,

Believe so much in him that he is young;

And with a larger tether may he walk

Than may be given you. In few, Ophelia,

Do not believe his vows; for they are brokers,

Not of that dye which their investments show,

But mere implorators of unholy suits,

Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds,

The better to beguile. This is for all.

I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth

Have you so slander any moment leisure

As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet.

Look to’t, I charge you; come your ways.

OPHELIA.

I shall obey, my lord.

[Exeunt.]

Scene IV

Enter Hamlet, Horatio and Marcellus.

HAMLET.

The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.

HORATIO.

It is a nipping and an eager air.

HAMLET.

What hour now?

HORATIO.

I think it lacks of twelve.

MARCELLUS.

No, it is struck.

HORATIO.

Indeed? I heard it not. It then draws near the season

Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.

[A flourish of trumpets, and ordnance shot off within.]

What does this mean, my lord?

HAMLET.

The King doth wake tonight and takes his rouse,

Keeps wassail, and the swaggering upspring reels;

And as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,

The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out

The triumph of his pledge.

HORATIO.

Is it a custom?

HAMLET.

Ay marry is’t;

And to my mind, though I am native here,

And to the manner born, it is a custom

More honour’d in the breach than the observance.

This heavy-headed revel east and west

Makes us traduc’d and tax’d of other nations:

They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase

Soil our addition; and indeed it takes

From our achievements, though perform’d at height,

The pith and marrow of our attribute.

So oft it chances in particular men

That for some vicious mole of nature in them,

As in their birth, wherein they are not guilty,

Since nature cannot choose his origin,

By their o’ergrowth of some complexion,

Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason;

Or by some habit, that too much o’erleavens

The form of plausive manners;-that these men,

Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,

Being Nature’s livery or Fortune’s star,-

His virtues else, – be they as pure as grace,

As infinite as man may undergo,

Shall in the general censure take corruption

From that particular fault. The dram of evil

Doth all the noble substance often doubt

To his own scandal.

HORATIO.

Look, my lord, it comes!

Enter Ghost.

HAMLET.

Angels and ministers of grace defend us!

Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d,

Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,

Be thy intents wicked or charitable,

Thou com’st in such a questionable shape

That I will speak to thee. I’ll call thee Hamlet,

King, father, royal Dane. O, answer me!

Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell

Why thy canoniz’d bones, hearsed in death,

Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre,

Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn’d,

Hath op’d his ponderous and marble jaws

To cast thee up again! What may this mean,

That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel,

Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon,

Making night hideous, and we fools of nature

So horridly to shake our disposition

With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?

Say, why is this? Wherefore? What should we do?

[Ghost beckons Hamlet.]

HORATIO.

It beckons you to go away with it,

As if it some impartment did desire

To you alone.

MARCELLUS.

Look with what courteous action

It waves you to a more removed ground.

But do not go with it.

HORATIO.

No, by no means.

HAMLET.

It will not speak; then will I follow it.

HORATIO.

Do not, my lord.

HAMLET.

Why, what should be the fear?

I do not set my life at a pin’s fee;

And for my soul, what can it do to that,

Being a thing immortal as itself?

It waves me forth again. I’ll follow it.

HORATIO.

What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord,

Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff

That beetles o’er his base into the sea,

And there assume some other horrible form

Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason,

And draw you into madness? Think of it.

The very place puts toys of desperation,

Without more motive, into every brain

That looks so many fadoms to the sea

And hears it roar beneath.

HAMLET.

It waves me still.

Go on, I’ll follow thee.

MARCELLUS.

You shall not go, my lord.

HAMLET.

Hold off your hands.

HORATIO.

Be rul’d; you shall not go.

HAMLET.

My fate cries out,

And makes each petty artery in this body

As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.

[Ghost beckons.]

Still am I call’d. Unhand me, gentlemen.

[Breaking free from them.]

By heaven, I’ll make a ghost of him that lets me.

I say, away! – Go on, I’ll follow thee.

[Exeunt Ghost and Hamlet.]

HORATIO.

He waxes desperate with imagination.

MARCELLUS.

Let’s follow; ’tis not fit thus to obey him.

HORATIO.

Have after. To what issue will this come?

MARCELLUS.

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

HORATIO.

Heaven will direct it.

MARCELLUS.

Nay, let’s follow him.

[Exeunt.]

Scene V

A more remote part of the Castle.

Enter Ghost and Hamlet.

HAMLET.

Whither 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;

No reckoning made, but sent to my account

With all my imperfections on my head.

O horrible! O horrible! most horrible!

If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not;

Let not the royal bed of Denmark be

A couch for luxury and damned incest.

But howsoever thou pursu’st this act,

Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive

Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven,

And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,

To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once!

The glow-worm shows the matin to be near,

And ’gins to pale his uneffectual fire.

Adieu, adieu, adieu. Hamlet, remember me.

[Exit.]

HAMLET.

O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else?

And shall I couple hell? O, fie! Hold, my heart;

And you, my sinews, grow not instant old,

But bear me stiffly up. Remember thee?

Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat

In this distracted globe. Remember thee?

Yea, from the table of my memory

I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records,

All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,

That youth and observation copied there;

And thy commandment all alone shall live

Within the book and volume of my brain,

Unmix’d with baser matter. Yes, by heaven!

O most pernicious woman!

O villain, villain, smiling damned villain!

My tables. Meet it is I set it down,

That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain!

At least I am sure it may be so in Denmark.

[Writing.]

So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word;

It is ‘Adieu, adieu, remember me.’

I have sworn’t.

HORATIO and MARCELLUS.

[Within.] My lord, my lord.

MARCELLUS.

[Within.] Lord Hamlet.

HORATIO.

[Within.] Heaven secure him.

HAMLET.

So be it!

MARCELLUS.

[Within.] Illo, ho, ho, my lord!

HAMLET.

Hillo, ho, ho, boy! Come, bird, come.

Enter Horatio and Marcellus.

MARCELLUS.

How is’t, my noble lord?

HORATIO.

What news, my lord?

HAMLET.

O, wonderful!

HORATIO.

Good my lord, tell it.

HAMLET.

No, you’ll reveal it.

HORATIO.

Not I, my lord, by heaven.

MARCELLUS.

Nor I, my lord.

HAMLET.

How say you then, would heart of man once think it?-

But you’ll be secret?

HORATIO and MARCELLUS.

Ay, by heaven, my lord.

HAMLET.

There’s ne’er a villain dwelling in all Denmark

But he’s an arrant knave.

HORATIO.

There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave

To tell us this.

HAMLET.

Why, right; you are i’ the right;

And so, without more circumstance at all,

I hold it fit that we shake hands and part:

You, as your business and desires shall point you,-

For every man hath business and desire,

Such as it is;-and for my own poor part,

Look you, I’ll go pray.

HORATIO.

These are but wild and whirling words, my lord.

HAMLET.

I’m sorry they offend you, heartily;

Yes faith, heartily.

HORATIO.

There’s no offence, my lord.