谁能给我提供哈姆雷特的英文独白

Answer 1

哈姆雷特:<独白>
生存还是毁灭？这是个问题。
究竟哪样更高贵，去忍受那狂暴的命运无情的摧残 还是挺身去反抗那无边的烦恼，把它扫一个干净。

去死，去睡就结束了，如果睡眠能结束我们心灵的创伤和肉体所承受的千百种痛苦，那真是生存求之不得的天大的好事。去死，去睡，
去睡，也许会做梦！

唉，这就麻烦了，即使摆脱了这尘世 可在这死的睡眠里又会做些什么梦呢？真得想一想，就这点顾虑使人受着终身的折磨，
谁甘心忍受那鞭打和嘲弄，受人压迫，受尽侮蔑和轻视，忍受那失恋的痛苦，法庭的拖延，衙门的横征暴敛，默默无闻的劳碌却只换来多少凌辱。但他自己只要用把尖刀就能解脱了。
谁也不甘心，呻吟、流汗拖着这残生，可是对死后又感觉到恐惧，又从来没有任何人从死亡的国土里回来，因此动摇了，宁愿忍受着目前的苦难 而不愿投奔向另一种苦难。
顾虑就使我们都变成了懦夫，使得那果断的本色蒙上了一层思虑的惨白的容颜，本来可以做出伟大的事业，由于思虑就化为乌有了，丧失了行动的能力。
Hamlet: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,
Th' 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 th' 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.

Answer 2

这有哈姆雷特的著名独白（第三幕第一场）

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
Devoutly 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 have shuffel'd off this mortall coile,
Must give us 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 Love, the Lawes delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurnes
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himselfe might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would these fardles beare
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Countrey, from whose Borne
No Traveller returnes, Puzels the will,
And makes us rather beare those illes we have,
Then flye to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native 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.

这里有中文意思：）~~
http://zhidao.baidu.com/question/6328096.html

Answer 3

生存还是毁灭？这是个问题。
究竟哪样更高贵，去忍受那狂暴的命运无情的摧残 还是挺身去反抗那无边的烦恼，把它扫一个干净。

去死，去睡就结束了，如果睡眠能结束我们心灵的创伤和肉体所承受的千百种痛苦，那真是生存求之不得的天大的好事。去死，去睡，
去睡，也许会做梦！

唉，这就麻烦了，即使摆脱了这尘世 可在这死的睡眠里又会做些什么梦呢？真得想一想，就这点顾虑使人受着终身的折磨，
谁甘心忍受那鞭打和嘲弄，受人压迫，受尽侮蔑和轻视，忍受那失恋的痛苦，法庭的拖延，衙门的横征暴敛，默默无闻的劳碌却只换来多少凌辱。但他自己只要用把尖刀就能解脱了。
谁也不甘心，呻吟、流汗拖着这残生，可是对死后又感觉到恐惧，又从来没有任何人从死亡的国土里回来，因此动摇了，宁愿忍受着目前的苦难 而不愿投奔向另一种苦难。
顾虑就使我们都变成了懦夫，使得那果断的本色蒙上了一层思虑的惨白的容颜，本来可以做出伟大的事业，由于思虑就化为乌有了，丧失了行动的能力。
Hamlet: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,
Th' 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 th' 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.

Answer 4

Hamlet's Soliloquy

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,

Th' 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 th' 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 rememb'red.