Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine,
And thy best graces spend it at thy will!
But now, my cousin
Hamlet, and my son,
[Aside] A little more than kin, and less than kind.
How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
Not so, my lord; I am too much i' the sun.
Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off,
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.
Do not for ever
with thy vailed lids
Seek for thy noble father in the dust:
Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die,
through nature to eternity.
Ay, madam, it is common.
If it be,
Why seems it so particular with thee?
Seems, madam! nay it is; I know not 'seems.'
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
dejected 'havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
That can denote me truly: these
For they are actions that a man might play:
But I have that within which passeth show;
but the trappings and the suits of woe.
'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet,
To give these mourning duties to your father:
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 persever
In obstinate condolement is a course
stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief;
It shows a will most incorrect to heaven,
A heart unfortified, a mind impatient,
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,
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 to-day,
'This must be so.' We pray you, throw
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,
I impart toward you. For your intent
In going back to school in Wittenberg,
It is most retrograde to our
And we beseech you, bend you to remain
Here, in the cheer and comfort of our eye,
courtier, cousin, and our son.
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