Читать книгу The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark - Уильям Шекспир, William Szekspir, the Simon Studio - Страница 5

  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.