I’ll just explain a little in a verse:
With full account, alas, I’m not invested...
I was conceived in sin, as you would guess,
In sweat and jitters of the night of wedding.

I was aware that taking off the ground,
As we ascend, we’re crueler and thornier.
I strode forth, calm and upright, to be crowned
And, born in wedlock, acted as Prince Royal.

I knew that all would be the way I willed.
I never lost and always had a fair chunk.
My school and fencing mates obeyed my will
Like fathers theirs obeyed the Crown of Denmark.

I didn’t care about the words I said,
And effortlessly squandered my avowals -
All noble kids believed me all the same,
Assenting to my primacy of power.

We startled watchmen on a beat at night,
The time was ailing with us, like with smallpox.
I slept on skins, ate, picking meat off knife,
And harrowed an unruly horse with stirrups.

I knew, one day, I would be prompted “Reign!” -
My brow was branded by my lot on birthday.
Beside chased harnesses, I felt like crazed,
And stoically endured duress of learning.

I mastered smiling only with my mouth,
Whereas a covert look was cross and choleric
For I’d been fostered by my father’s clown.
Alas, that jester’s dead. Amen! Poor Yorick!

Yet I refused to have a share in takes
Of glory, privileges, plunders, tributes.
I pitied suddenly a page had passed away...
I tried to do no harm to greening offshoots.

And I gave up the ghost on hunter’s zest,
I was grossed out by coursers, hounds and beagles,
From wounded game, I held my horse at length,
Chastising huntsmen, and pursuers, and beaters.

Aware that our pastime, day by day,
Increasingly reminded of mistreatment,
I washed the daily swinishness away
In running water, late at night, in secret.

It dawned on me that, getting sore in mind,
I failed to note domestic folk intriguing.
I didn’t like the age, nor did I like
The people in it. And I took to reading.

As avid as an eager beaver, brains
Grasped everything I studied: rest and motion.
But useless were both sciences and pains,
When everything was their controversion.

The ties with playmates in the long run split:
The Ariadne’s thread turned out a game plan.
I puzzled o’er “to be or not to be”
Like over an unsolvable dilemma.

A sea of troubles, though, keeps raging high.
We twang at it, like millet at a bolter,
Removing chancy answers thereby,
Apart from this sophisticated poser.

I heard my father’s call through dying hum
And went behind, pursued by creeping doubts;
A heavy load of musings tugged me up,
While carnal wings lugged pitilessly down.

The stuff, days welded me from, had been frail
And given at the seams, while indurating,
And I shed blood like others, and, like they,
I turned out weak to waive retaliating.

My last success was, in the end, my fall.
Ophelia! Afterlife is not decayin’.
But I became a murderer, therefore
No better than the one, who I had slain.

It’s I, prince Hamlet, I abhorred duress,
I could care less about the Danish Crown, and
Yet they suspected me of breaking necks
Thus getting rid of rivalry for power.

A bright insight, though, always looks like craze,
In birth, a fatal end peeps out askance. And
Perplexing are the answers that we raise,
And shrouded are the questions to be answered.