| | |
|
|
Edición del I Folio
|
|
|
| O, that this too too
solid flesh would melt |
|
|
| Thaw and resolve
itself into a dew! |
|
|
| Or that the
Everlasting had not fix'd |
|
|
| 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
follow'd my poor father's body, |
|
|
| Like Niobe, all
tears:--why she, even she-- |
|
|
| O, God! a beast,
that wants discourse of reason, |
|
|
| Would have mourn'd
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. |
|
|
-
Edición del I Folio
|
|
|
| And shall I couple hell? O, fie!
Hold, 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'm sure it may be so in
Denmark: |
|
|
| So, uncle, there you are. Now to my
word; |
|
|
| It is 'Adieu, adieu! remember me.' |
|
|
| I have sworn 't. |
|
|
|
|
|
Edición del I Folio
|
|
|
|
Now I am alone. |
|
|
|
O, what a rogue and peasant slave am
I! |
|
|
|
Is it not monstrous that this player
here, |
|
|
|
But in a fiction, in a dream of
passion, |
|
|
|
Could force his soul so to his own
conceit |
|
|
|
That from her working all his visage
wann'd, |
|
|
|
Tears in his eyes, distraction in's
aspect, |
|
|
|
A broken voice, and his whole function
suiting |
|
|
|
With forms to his conceit? and all for
nothing! |
|
|
|
For Hecuba! |
|
|
|
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, |
|
|
|
That he should weep for her? What
would he do, |
|
|
|
Had he the motive and the cue for
passion |
|
|
|
That I have? He would drown the stage
with tears |
|
|
|
And cleave the general ear with horrid
speech, |
|
|
|
Make mad the guilty and appal the
free, |
|
|
|
Confound the ignorant, and amaze
indeed |
|
|
|
The very faculties of eyes and ears.
Yet I, |
|
|
|
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak, |
|
|
|
Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my
cause, |
|
|
|
And can say nothing; no, not for a
king, |
|
|
|
Upon whose property and most dear life |
|
|
|
A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a
coward? |
|
|
|
Who calls me villain? breaks my pate
across? |
|
|
|
Plucks off my beard, and blows it in
my face? |
|
|
|
Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the
lie i' the throat, |
|
|
|
As deep as to the lungs? who does me
this? |
|
|
|
Ha! |
|
|
|
'Swounds, I should take it: for it
cannot be |
|
|
|
But I am pigeon-liver'd and lack gall |
|
|
|
To make oppression bitter, or ere this |
|
|
|
I should have fatted all the region
kites |
|
|
|
With this slave's offal: bloody, bawdy
villain! |
|
|
|
Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous,
kindless villain! |
|
|
|
O, vengeance!
Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave,
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
That I, the son of a dear father
murder'd, |
|
|
|
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and
hell, |
|
|
|
Must, like a whore, unpack my heart
with words, |
|
|
|
And fall a-cursing, like a very drab, |
|
|
|
A scullion !
Fie upon't! foh! About, my brain! I
have heard
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
That guilty creatures sitting at a
play |
|
|
|
Have by the very cunning of the scene
Been struck so to the soul that
presently
|
|
|
|
|
|
They have proclaim'd their
malefactions; |
|
|
|
For murder, though it have no tongue,
will speak |
|
|
|
With most miraculous organ. I'll have
these players |
|
|
|
Play something like the murder of my
father |
|
|
|
Before mine uncle: I'll observe his
looks; |
|
|
|
I'll tent him to the quick: if he but
blench, |
|
|
|
I know my course. The spirit that I
have seen |
|
|
|
May be the devil: and the devil hath
power |
|
|
|
To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and
perhaps |
|
|
|
Out of my weakness and my melancholy, |
|
|
|
As he is very potent with such spirits, |
|
|
|
Abuses me to damn me: I'll have
grounds |
|
|
|
More relative than this: the play 's
the thing |
|
|
|
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of
the king. |
|
|
|
Edición del I Folio
|
|
|
|
To be, or not to be: that is the
question: |
|
|
|
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to
suffer |
|
|
|
The slings and arrows of outrageous
fortune, |
|
|
|
Or to take arms against a sea of
troubles, |
|
|
|
And by opposing end them? To die: to
sleep; |
|
|
|
No more; and by a sleep to say we end |
|
|
|
The heart-ache and the thousand
natural shocks |
|
|
|
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a
consummation |
|
|
|
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to
sleep; |
|
|
|
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay,
there's the rub; |
|
|
|
For in that sleep of death what dreams
may come |
|
|
|
When we have shuffled off this mortal
coil, |
|
|
|
Must give us pause: there's the
respect |
|
|
|
That makes calamity of so long life; |
|
|
|
For who would bear the whips and
scorns of time, |
|
|
|
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's
contumely, |
|
|
|
The pangs of despised love, the law's
delay, |
|
|
|
The insolence of office and the spurns |
|
|
|
That patient merit of the unworthy
takes, |
|
|
|
When he himself might his quietus make |
|
|
|
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels
bear, |
|
|
|
To grunt and sweat under a weary life, |
|
|
|
But that the dread of something after
death, |
|
|
|
The undiscover'd country from whose
bourn |
|
|
|
No traveller returns, puzzles the will |
|
|
|
And makes us rather bear those ills we
have |
|
|
|
Than fly to others that we know not of? |
|
|
|
Thus conscience does make cowards of
us all; |
|
|
|
And thus the native hue of resolution |
|
|
|
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of
thought, |
|
|
|
And enterprises of great pith and
moment |
|
|
|
With this regard their currents turn
awry, |
|
|
|
And lose the name of action.--Soft you
now! |
|
|
|
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy
orisons |
|
|
|
Be all my sins remember'd. |
|
|
|
Edición del I Folio
|
|
|
| Tis now the very witching time of
night, |
|
|
| When churchyards yawn and hell itself
breathes out |
|
|
| Contagion to this world: now could I
drink hot blood, |
|
|
| And do such bitter business as the day |
|
|
| Would quake to look on. Soft! now to
my mother. |
|
|
| O heart, lose not thy nature; let not
ever |
|
|
| The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom: |
|
|
| Let me be cruel, not unnatural: |
|
|
| I will speak daggers to her, but use
none; |
|
|
| My tongue and soul in this be
hypocrites; |
|
|
| How in my words soever she be shent, |
|
|
| To give them seals never, my soul,
consent |
|
|
|
|
Edición del I Folio
|
|
|
| Now might I do it pat, now he is praying; |
|
|
| And now I'll do't. And so he goes to heaven; |
|
|
| And so am I revenged. That would be scann'd: |
|
|
| A villain kills my father; and for that, |
|
|
| I, his sole son, do this same villain send |
|
|
| To heaven. |
|
|
| O, this is hire and salary, not revenge. |
|
|
| He took my father grossly, full of bread; |
|
|
| With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; |
|
|
| And how his audit stands who knows save heaven? |
|
|
| But in our circumstance and course of thought, |
|
|
| 'Tis heavy with him: and am I then revenged, |
|
|
| To take him in the purging of his soul, |
|
|
| When he is fit and season'd for his passage? |
|
|
| No! |
|
|
| Up, sword; and know thou a more horrid hent: |
|
|
| When he is drunk asleep, or in his rage, |
|
|
| Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed; |
|
|
| At gaming, swearing, or about some act |
|
|
| That has no relish of salvation in't; |
|
|
| Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven, |
|
|
| And that his soul may be as damn'd and black |
|
|
| As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays: |
|
|
| This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. |
|
|
Edición del I Folio
|
|
|
| How all occasions do inform against me, |
|
|
| And spur my dull revenge! What is a man, |
|
|
| If his chief good and market of his time |
|
|
| Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. |
|
|
| Sure, he that made us with such large discourse, |
|
|
| Looking before and after, gave us not |
|
|
| That capability and god-like reason |
|
|
| To fust in us unused. Now, whether it be |
|
|
| Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple |
|
|
| Of thinking too precisely on the event, |
|
|
| A thought which, quarter'd, hath but one part
wisdom |
|
|
| And ever three parts coward, I do not know |
|
|
| Why yet I live to say 'This thing's to do;' |
|
|
| Sith I have cause and will and strength and means |
|
|
| To do't. Examples gross as earth exhort me: |
|
|
| Witness this army of such mass and charge |
|
|
| Led by a delicate and tender prince, |
|
|
| Whose spirit with divine ambition puff'd |
|
|
| Makes mouths at the invisible event, |
|
|
| Exposing what is mortal and unsure |
|
|
| To all that fortune, death and danger dare, |
|
|
| Even for an egg-shell. Rightly to be great |
|
|
| Is not to stir without great argument, |
|
|
| But greatly to find quarrel in a straw |
|
|
| When honour's at the stake. How stand I then, |
|
|
| That have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd, |
|
|
| Excitements of my reason and my blood, |
|
|
| And let all sleep? while, to my shame, I see |
|
|
| The imminent death of twenty thousand men, |
|
|
| That, for a fantasy and trick of fame, |
|
|
| Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot |
|
|
| Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, |
|
|
| Which is not tomb enough and continent |
|
|
| To hide the slain? O, from this time forth, |
|
|
| My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth! |
|
|
|
|
