Hamlet, the Prince, in sorrow's grip doth lie. Upon his bed, as if in grave's embrace, He rots in grief. In sorrow he lay, he withers, his spirit unbound, For his father’s death, in silence profound. His mother, so swift to wed with haste, Leaves him in torment, his heart laid to waste. He eats but little, and his form doth waste, in mourning deeply placed. Neglecting his fare As whispers of his fathers spirit dances in the air.

Thou, in service to the Queen, art sent, To tend the Prince, restore his grace unbent. "Make him presentable," the Queen decrees, Yet thou hast not met him, nor known his pleas. Through corridors dim, thou tread'st with care, And step within his shadowed, sorrowed lair. Thou find'st him sprawled upon his dismal bed, His form disheveled, chaos in his head.

His hair, a wild tempest, stands on end, His hollow eyes on endless dark depend. His cheekbones sharp, as if by sorrow carved, By grief and madness both, his mind is starved. And as thou listen'st, soft upon the air, The fateful words, "To be or not to be" are there. He ponders thus, in melancholy's thrall, Whether to live, or in death's arms to fall.