CLAUDIUS      Therefore our sometime sister, now our Queen,

Th’imperial jointress to this warlike state,

Have we, as ’twere with a defeated joy,

With an auspicious and a dropping eye,

With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage,

In equal scale weighing delight and dole,

Taken to wife.             (1.1.8-14)

Therefore—therefore—because we’ve (I’ve) got to think of ourselves, our own needs as well as those of the country, and even though it’s obviously all Very Sad: well, you know my sister-in-law, my dead brother’s wife, our sometime sister, who is now our Queen (perhaps a little cheer or whoop from a sycophantic courtier? or are they embarrassed? so many options…) (and sister does just mean sister-in-law here, but to a modern ear in particular it’s jarringly incestuous), and she is the imperial jointress to this warlike state, a widow, technically already in possession of at least some of Denmark’s lands and powers by virtue of her previous husband, Denmark’s king—the state is warlike because it is a land of warriors (although the audience will recall Horatio’s descriptions of the preparations for war in the previous scene). There might be a bit of discomfort, or perhaps a slightly embarrassed laugh from Gertrude at all this—he’s making her sound like the goddess of war!—have we, as ’twere with a defeated joy, with an auspicious and a dropping eye, one eye smiling, the other weeping (Claudius is really laying it on thick here with his paradoxes and oxymorons; it’s a kind of special pleading, perhaps, as if he knows he’s done something a Bit Dodgy)—with mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage (both of which sound not just paradoxical but frankly inappropriate, laughing at a funeral and mourning at a wedding)—and he’s still going (are the rest of the company looking awkward, you don’t have to draw attention to all this, or smiling indulgently, oh, Claudius, sorry, Your Majesty, what are you Like?) in equal scale weighing delight and dole, it was an even balance between the two of them, happiness and sorrow, dolour—well, the upshot is: I’ve taken her to wife. We’re married! Round of applause!