Act 3, Scene 1
Enter Hamlet
Enter Hamlet
Hamlet
To be or not to be - that is the question:
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 wished. To die, to sleep –
To sleep, perchance to dream. Aye, 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,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, [F: poor]
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, [F: disprized]
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, [F: these Fardels]
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveler 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 pitch and moment, [F: pith]
With this regard their currents turn awry, [F: away]
And lose the name of action. – Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia. – Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered
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 wished. To die, to sleep –
To sleep, perchance to dream. Aye, 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,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, [F: poor]
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, [F: disprized]
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, [F: these Fardels]
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveler 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 pitch and moment, [F: pith]
With this regard their currents turn awry, [F: away]
And lose the name of action. – Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia. – Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered
Ato 3, Cena 1
Entra Hamlet
Entra Hamlet
Hamlet
Ser ou não ser – eis a questão!
Será mais nobre sofrer em pensamento
os golpes e as flechadas da má sorte,
ou debater-se em um mar de tormentas,
e, ao combater, dar-lhes um fim? Morrer, dormir –
não mais – e, por dormir, dizem pormos um fim
à dor e a mil doenças que atacam
nosso corpo – é o fim
que devemos ansiar. Morrer, dormir –
dormir, talvez sonhar. Ah, eis o obstáculo,
pois neste sono de morte que os sonhos trazem
quando deixamos esta ronda mortal,
dando-nos trégua. Este é o motivo
que torna a vida uma calamidade tão longa.
Quem suportaria o chicote e o desdém do tempo,
o mal do opressor, a empáfia do orgulhoso,
a dor do desamor, o tardar da lei,
a insolência do ofício, e o desprezo
dado ao mérito pelos insolentes.
quando ele mesmo poderia deixar a vida
com um mero punhal? Quem suportaria o fardo,
o sofrimento e o suor de sua triste vida,
senão pelo medo de algo após a morte,
a terra desconhecida de onde os aventureiros
nunca retornam, que confunde a nossa mente
e faz-nos tolerar os males que vivemos
em vez de ir ao encontro do desconhecido?
Portanto, refletir nos torna covardes,
e assim as cores da decisão
são empalidecidas pelo mero pensamento.
E momentos de grandes gestos inspirados,
se ponderados, perdem a força,
e enfraquecem a ação. – Silêncio, agora!
Aproxima-se a bela Ofélia.
– Ninfa, ao rezar,
lembra-te de todos os meus pecados.
Tradução de Thereza Christina Rocque da Motta
