Hamlet Act 1 Scene 3

My luggage is aboard. Goodbye.

And sister — whenever the winds are favourable

and there's a ship going, don't be lazy:

write to me.

Do you doubt it?

As for Hamlet and his flirting,

treat it as a passing fashion, a bit of hot blood —

a violet in the springtime of youth:

early, not permanent; sweet, not lasting;

the scent and amusement of a minute.

Nothing more.

Nothing more than that?

Consider it nothing more.

As a person grows, it isn't only

muscle and size that increase — as the body grows,

the inner workings of mind and soul

expand too. Perhaps he loves you now,

and perhaps no dishonesty or deceit stains

the honesty of his intentions. But you must remember —

considering his rank, his will isn't his own.

He's a subject of his own birth.

He can't, like ordinary people,

choose for himself, because on his choice depends

the safety and health of the whole state.

So his choice must be limited

by the approval of the country

he's the head of. So if he says he loves you,

it's wise to believe it only as far as

his position actually allows him

to act on his words — which is no further

than Denmark as a whole will agree to.

So think what your honour might lose

if you listen too trustingly to his songs,

or lose your heart, or open your chaste treasure

to his uncontrolled pressure.

Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, dear sister,

and stay behind your own affections,

out of range of desire's gunfire.

The most cautious girl is reckless enough

if she shows her beauty even to the moon.

Even virtue doesn't escape slander.

Worms damage spring's young buds

too often before they've even opened,

and in the morning dew of youth

infection strikes most readily.

So be careful. Safety lies in caution.

Youth rebels against itself, even with nobody else around.

I'll keep the substance of this good lesson

as a guard on my heart. But, dear brother,

don't be like those hypocritical preachers

who point out the steep, thorny road to heaven

while they themselves, like swollen, reckless playboys,

stroll down the primrose path of pleasure

and ignore their own advice.

Don't worry about me!

I'm staying too long. But here comes my father.

A double blessing is a double blessing;

luck smiles on a second farewell.

Still here, Laertes? Get aboard, get aboard, for shame!

The wind is filling your sail

and they're waiting for you. There — my blessing on you!

And write these few rules

in your memory. Don't say everything you think,

and don't act on any ill-considered thought.

Be friendly, but never common.

The friends you have, once they've proved themselves,

bind them to your soul with steel hoops —

but don't wear out your hand shaking hands with

every newly hatched, untested acquaintance. Beware

of getting into a fight — but once you're in,

handle it so your opponent fears you.

Listen to everyone, but speak to few.

Take everyone's opinion, but keep your own judgment to yourself.

Dress as expensively as your money allows,

but not gaudily — rich, not flashy.

Clothes often announce the man,

and the French of the best rank and position

are extremely refined and generous, especially in that.

Don't borrow and don't lend.

A loan often loses both the money and the friend,

and borrowing blunts the edge of good economy.

And above all: be true to yourself,

and it must follow, as night follows day,

that you can't then be false to anyone.

Goodbye. May my blessing make this take root in you.

I take my leave most humbly, my lord.

Time's calling you. Go — your servants are waiting.

Goodbye, Ophelia — and remember well

what I said to you.

It's locked in my memory,

and you'll keep the key yourself.

Goodbye.

What was it he said to you, Ophelia?

If you please, something concerning Lord Hamlet.

Well now, that's timely!

I'm told he's very often lately

given you private time — and that you yourself

have been generous with your attention.

If that's true — as it's been reported to me,

as a warning — then I must tell you

you don't understand your own position clearly enough

for my daughter and for your honour.

What's between you? Tell me the truth.

He has lately, my lord, made many offers

of his affection to me.

Affection? Pff! You talk like a naive girl,

untested in such dangerous circumstances.

Do you believe these 'offers,' as you call them?

I don't know what I should think, my lord.

Then I'll teach you! Think of yourself as a baby

for taking these offers as genuine currency

when they're counterfeit. Value yourself more highly,

or — not to run this poor pun into the ground —

you'll make a fool of me.

My lord, he has pressed his love on me

honourably.

Yes — 'fashion' is the right word for it. Come now!

And he's backed up his words, my lord,

with practically every sacred vow there is.

Yes — snares to catch stupid birds! I know

how generously the soul lends the tongue vows

when the blood is hot. These flare-ups, daughter,

give more light than heat and go out in both

even as the promise is being made.

Don't mistake them for real fire. From now on

be a little less available.

Price your attention higher

than a mere order to talk. As for Lord Hamlet:

believe this much — he's young,

and he's allowed a much longer leash

than you are. In short, Ophelia:

don't believe his vows. They're salesmen,

not the colour their clothing suggests —

just agents pleading for unholy requests,

talking like holy, pious pimps

the better to deceive. Here's the sum of it:

in plain words, from now on I don't want you

wasting a single moment of your free time

talking with Lord Hamlet.

See to it. That's an order. Come along.

I'll obey, my lord.