Hamlet's Soliloquy (III.i) in Latin

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Utrum oporteat esse an non — illud quaeritur:
num generosius in animo sit pati
tormenta telaque Fortunae protervae
an arma sumere contra aerumnarum mare
et resistendo eas opprimere: mori, dormire...
nil plus; et hoc somno dicere nos terminare
dolorem cordis et mille plagas naturales
quas caro hereditavit? Consummatio
devote cupienda! Mori, dormire,
fortasse somniare — illic equidem obstatur,
nam in ista lethi quiete, qualia invadant somnia,
postquam nos ex his spiris mortalibus extorserimus —
de hoc dubitandum est. Illic est ratio
quae calamitatem reddit tam longaevam:
Quis enim toleret flagella temporis et ludibria,
injurias tyrannici, contumelias miserorum,
cruciatus amoris depretiati, moram Juris,
arrogantiam magistratûs, et repulsas
quas patientia merens inferiorum accipiat,
cum ipsi liceat suam facere solutionem
pugiunculo nudo? Quis hos fasces sufferre velit,
ut sub taedia vitae grunniat et sudet,
nisi metus alicujus quod veniat post mortem —
illam terram inexploratam a limite cujus
viator redeat nullus — voluntatem confundat,
et faciat nos sustinere mala illa quae habeamus
potius quam ad alia quae nesciamus contendere?
Sic conscientia ignavos reddit nos omnes,
et sic color animi firmissimi nativus
aspectu pallido cogitationis aegrescit,
et grandia suscepta momenti magni
hoc visu suos impetus detorquent,
et nomen agendi perdunt. En ecce,
bella illa Ophelia? Nympha, in orationibus tuis
peccatorum meorum memento omnium.



To be, or not to be, that is the Question:
Whether 'tis Nobler in the minde to suffer
The Slings and Arrowes of outragious Fortune,
Or to take Armes against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to dye, to sleepe
No more; and by a sleepe, to say we end
The Heart-ake, and the thousand Naturall shockes
That Flesh is heyre too? 'Tis a consummation
Deuoutly to be wish'd. To dye to sleepe,
To sleepe, perchance to Dreame; I, there's the rub,
For in that sleepe of death, what dreames may come,
When we haue shufflel'd off this mortall coile,
Must giue vs pawse. There's the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would beare the Whips and Scornes of time,
The Oppressors wrong, the poore mans Contumely,
The pangs of dispriz'd Loue, the Lawes delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurnes
That patient merit of the vnworthy takes,
When he himselfe might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would these Fardles beare
To grunt and sweat vnder a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The vndiscouered Countrey, from whose Borne
No Traueller returnes, Puzels the will,
And makes vs rather beare those illes we haue,
Then flye to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of vs all,
And thus the Natiue hew of Resolution
Is sicklied o're, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprizes of great pith and moment,
With this regard their Currants turne away,
And loose the name of Action. Soft you now,
The faire Ophelia? Nimph, in thy Orizons
Be all my sinnes remembred.


© Latin translation: Claude Pavur 2014. English version: Folio of 1623, adapted from Wikipedia. The translator thanks Brian Bishop and Clarence Miller for many helpful suggestions and improvements. PDF bicolumnar bilingual version available here.


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