Это "Гамлет". Могу перечитывать и пересматривать без конца. Отыскала на английском.
читать дальшеHamlet.
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 the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would these 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 Ophelia!--Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
Ophelia.
Good my lord,
How does your honour for this many a day?
Hamlet.
I humbly thank you; well, well, well.
Ophelia.
My lord, I have remembrances of yours
That I have longed long to re-deliver.
I pray you, now receive them.
Hamlet.
No, not I;
I never gave you aught.
Ophelia.
My honour'd lord, you know right well you did;
And with them words of so sweet breath compos'd
As made the things more rich; their perfume lost,
Take these again; for to the noble mind
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
There, my lord.
Но это, кажется, еще адаптированный вариант. Признаю только перевод Пастернака.
"Так скажем, вы печальны, затем, что вы невеселы, и только". Мм, тащусь.
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18.11.2005 в 23:01Все таки как сильно влияет настоящие искусство на неокрепший организм...
Вот кстати отрывок из этой пьесы...
...Глухая ночь без звезд и без луны
Прокралась в сердце мне,
Как острых две стрелы
Впились мне в душу ненависть и ярость
И ничего мне больше не осталось,
Как только перепрыгнуть ту черту,
Которой делят зло и доброту.
Я раньше почему, то жить хотел.
Судьбы коварство долго я терпел.
Теперь пришло мне время выбирать,
Иль умереть иль снова счастья ждать...
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19.11.2005 в 22:39-
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19.11.2005 в 23:01Кстати, с удовольствием прочитал бы Ваши.