'Tis sweet and commendable in your
nature, Hamlet,
To give these mourning duties to
your father.
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
persever
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
unschooled.
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.
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