The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark - Уильям Шекспир 3 стр.

  Ham. The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.
  Hor. It is a nipping and an eager air.
  Ham. What hour now?
  Hor. I think it lacks of twelve.
  Mar. No, it is struck.
  Hor. Indeed? I heard it not. It then draws near the season
    Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.
                   A flourish of trumpets, and two pieces go off.
    What does this mean, my lord?
  Ham. The King doth wake to-night and takes his rouse,
    Keeps wassail, and the swagg'ring upspring reels,
    And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,
    The kettledrum and trumpet thus bray out
    The triumph of his pledge.
  Hor. Is it a custom?
  Ham. Ay, marry, is't;
    But 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 clip 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 the 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,
    Their 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 e'il
    Doth all the noble substance often dout To his own scandal.

  Hor. Look, my lord, it comes!
  Ham. 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,
    Revisits 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.
  Hor. It beckons you to go away with it,
    As if it some impartment did desire
    To you alone.
  Mar. Look with what courteous action
    It waves you to a more removed ground.
    But do not go with it!
  Hor. No, by no means!
  Ham. It will not speak. Then will I follow it.
  Hor. Do not, my lord!
  Ham. 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.
  Hor. 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.
  Ham. It waves me still.
    Go on. I'll follow thee.
  Mar. You shall not go, my lord.
  Ham. Hold off your hands!
  Hor. Be rul'd. You shall not go.
  Ham. My fate cries out
    And makes each petty artire in this body
    As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve.
                                                [Ghost beckons.]

    Still am I call'd. Unhand me, gentlemen.
    By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me! -
    I say, away!  Go on. I'll follow thee.

  Hor. He waxes desperate with imagination.
  Mar. Let's follow. 'Tis not fit thus to obey him.
  Hor. Have after. To what issue wail this come?
  Mar. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
  Hor. Heaven will direct it.
  Mar. Nay, let's follow him.

  Ham. Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak! I'll go no further.
  Ghost. Mark me.
  Ham. I will.
  Ghost. My hour is almost come,
    When I to sulph'rous and tormenting flames
    Must render up myself.
  Ham. Alas, poor ghost!
  Ghost. Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing
    To what I shall unfold.
  Ham. Speak. I am bound to hear.
  Ghost. So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.
  Ham. 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 an end
    Like quills upon the fretful porpentine.
    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-
  Ham. O God!
  Ghost. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murther.
  Ham. Murther?
  Ghost. Murther most foul, as in the best it is;
    But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
  Ham. 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.
  Ham. O my prophetic soul!
    My 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 hebona 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 quicksilverr 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.
  Ham. O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible!
  Ghost. 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 pursuest 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 glowworm shows the matin to be near
    And gins to pale his uneffectual fire.
    Adieu, adieu, adieu! Remember me. Exit.

  Ham. O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else?
    And shall I couple hell? 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 am sure it may be so in Denmark. [Writes.]
    So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word:
    It is 'Adieu, adieu! Remember me.'
    I have sworn't.
  Hor. (within) My lord, my lord!

  Ham. Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak! I'll go no further.
  Ghost. Mark me.
  Ham. I will.
  Ghost. My hour is almost come,
    When I to sulph'rous and tormenting flames
    Must render up myself.
  Ham. Alas, poor ghost!
  Ghost. Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing
    To what I shall unfold.
  Ham. Speak. I am bound to hear.
  Ghost. So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.
  Ham. 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 an end
    Like quills upon the fretful porpentine.
    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-
  Ham. O God!
  Ghost. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murther.
  Ham. Murther?
  Ghost. Murther most foul, as in the best it is;
    But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
  Ham. 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.
  Ham. O my prophetic soul!
    My 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 hebona 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 quicksilverr 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.
  Ham. O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible!
  Ghost. 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 pursuest 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 glowworm shows the matin to be near
    And gins to pale his uneffectual fire.
    Adieu, adieu, adieu! Remember me. Exit.

  Ham. O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else?
    And shall I couple hell? 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 am sure it may be so in Denmark. [Writes.]
    So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word:
    It is 'Adieu, adieu! Remember me.'
    I have sworn't.
  Hor. (within) My lord, my lord!

  Mar. Lord Hamlet!
  Hor. Heaven secure him!
  Ham. So be it!
  Mar. Illo, ho, ho, my lord!
  Ham. Hillo, ho, ho, boy! Come, bird, come.
  Mar. How is't, my noble lord?
  Hor. What news, my lord?
  Mar. O, wonderful!
  Hor. Good my lord, tell it.
  Ham. No, you will reveal it.
  Hor. Not I, my lord, by heaven!
  Mar. Nor I, my lord.
  Ham. How say you then? Would heart of man once think it?
    But you'll be secret?
  Both. Ay, by heaven, my lord.
  Ham. There's neer a villain dwelling in all Denmark
    But he's an arrant knave.
  Hor. There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave
    To tell us this.
  Ham. Why, right! You are in 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.
  Hor. These are but wild and whirling words, my lord.
  Ham. I am sorry they offend you, heartily;
    Yes, faith, heartily.
  Hor. There's no offence, my lord.
  Ham. Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio,
    And much offence too. Touching this vision here,
    It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you.
    For your desire to know what is between us,
    O'ermaster't as you may. And now, good friends,
    As you are friends, scholars, and soldiers,
    Give me one poor request.
  Hor. What is't, my lord? We will.
  Ham. Never make known what you have seen to-night.
  Both. My lord, we will not.
  Ham. Nay, but swear't.
  Hor. In faith,
    My lord, not I.
  Mar. Nor I, my lord- in faith.
  Ham. Upon my sword.
  Mar. We have sworn, my lord, already.
  Ham. Indeed, upon my sword, indeed.