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.

Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet

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

I shall in all my best obey you, madam.

Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply.

Be as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come;

This gentle and unforc'd accord of Hamlet

Sits smiling to my heart; in grace whereof,

No jocund health that Denmark drinks today

But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell,

And the King's rouse the heaven shall

                         bruit again,

Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away.

[Exeunt all but Hamlet]

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! O God!

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable

Seem to me all the uses of this world!

Fie on't! Oh 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 followed 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 mine 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.

[Enter Horatio, Marcellus and Barnardo]

Hail to your lordship!

I am glad to see you well:

Horatio, or I do forget myself.

The same, my lord,

And your poor servant ever.

Sir, my good friend;

I'll change that name with you:

And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?

                         Marcellus?

My good lord.

I am very glad to see you.-Good even, sir. —