Читать книгу Hamlet. Macbeth / Гамлет. Макбет онлайн

Passing through nature to eternity.

Hamlet

Ay, madam, it is common.

Queen

If it be,

Why seems it so particular with thee?

Hamlet

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 forc'd breath,

No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,

Nor the dejected haviour of the visage,

Together with all forms, moods, shows 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 passeth show;

These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

King

'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 persevere

In obstinate condolement is a course

Of impious stubbornness. 'Tis unmanly grief,

It shows a will most incorrect to heaven,

A heart unfortified, a mind impatient,

An understanding simple and unschool'd;

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; 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 your intent

In going back to school in Wittenberg,

It is most retrograde to our desire:

And we beseech you bend you to remain

Here in the cheer and comfort of our eye,

Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.

Queen

Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet

I pray thee stay with us; go not to Wittenberg.