…orthe Importance of Being Danish, a farce and tragicomedy that will run, and run, and run.
Enter Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
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 heartache, 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 despis’d love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’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 Ceridwen!–Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.
(Ophelia has been sent on holiday with Flemming Rose)
What now, sweet Prince?
Thy vassals have set the cat amongst the pidgeons
And a fine old rumpus they have made!
Methinks this folly is not worthy of a prince
What art defiles, what words incite?
If you cut me do I not bleed?
For I am but of flesh and blood
No nymph or muse or phantom
Let thy people hold their tongues
Their rantings fit for neither beast nor king
Gentle prince the hour is not good
When all cry hate and suffocate
The children who will suckle at my breast
Long before the Danes set foot on Western shores
A queen ruled here, my namesake Ceridwen
Peace reigned and words were sacred not profane
Let all know this, the earth is one yet all her sorrows many
Defile not thy birthright that is all ye have
And all ye need to have
None escape the mother’s rage for death comes to us all
Beggar, freeman, king or slave!