It is not possible. It can’t be like this. My father, a man so fine, so nice with his wife, so intelligent and brave, no one could be like him, now he is nothing more than dust. Like a God he was, and now he has disappeared, so suddenly, so unexpectedly. The most insensible heart would break and cry for months for such a disgrace; but not my mother.

My mother! I am scared just thinking of that! She had the most excellent man of Denmark, no, more, of the world, and, after my father’s burial, she has married his brother. I won’t stand seeing them together, my mother so incestuously united with my uncle. My uncle, or shall I call him my father?

No, never, my father is in the ground and he will never come back again. But I hope he will come back, when my mother marries Claudius, so to take his vengeance.

I still can’t believe my mother could do that, so loved by my father, and so gently and softly treated! Now it seems like she has forgotten everything, putting herself in the harms of a toad.

Remember, Hamlet, no false joy at the wedding, do not let you convince by your mother. This is but incest, and my father cries from the grave his sorrow, not listened by anyone.