Original Text

Modern Text

Pays homage to us—thou mayst not coldly set
65Our sovereign process, which imports at full,
By letters congruing to that effect,
The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England,
For like the hectic in my blood he rages,
And thou must cure me. Till I know ’tis done,
70Howe'er my haps, my joys were ne'er begun.
English king, since he’s raging like a fever in my brain, and you must cure me. Until I know it’s been done, I’ll never be happy, no matter how much luck I have.
He exits.