November 19
I have been sitting here, for the past few hours,
attempting to memorize these four lines with no luck. I am ready to be done,
ready to be finished. Instead, they give me nothing by difficulty. It has been
written out, still no luck. Thanks, Shakespeare, I appreciate these four (some
aren’t even full) lines.
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 unschool’d. for what me 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 dearest father
bears for his son do I impart toward you. To your intent of going back to
wittenburg, it is most retrograde to our desire. And we beseech you, bend you
to remain in the cheer and comfort of our eye our chiefest courtier, cousin and
our son.
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