CLAUDIUS      But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son –

HAMLET         A little more than kin, and less than kind.

CLAUDIUS      How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

HAMLET         Not so, my lord, I am too much in the son.

GERTRUDE     Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off

And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.

Do not for ever with thy vailed lids

Seek for thy noble father in the dust. (1.2.64-71)

Finally! Finally! But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son—Claudius has been keeping everyone waiting, onstage and off: is this deliberate insult, powerplay, insecurity? All are possible. Cousin here means relation in general, nephew specifically; son is the pointed, daring, even cruel thing—will it elicit the lashing-out cry of the grieving, abandoned child, you’re not my dad, you’ll never be my dad! No, Hamlet’s not going to bite, much; he’s too wrapped up in his own complex emotions? not going to give Claudius the satisfaction? can’t resist a punning barb? a little more than kin, and less than kind. Is it spoken to Claudius’s face or as an aside? Choices, choices. I’m a closer relation to you than I’d like, and I fear that you do not look kindly on me. I don’t trust you.

Claudius tries a new tack: how is it that the clouds still hang on you? Metaphorically, why are you still so down about all this? Literally, why are you still wearing formal mourning, why are you still wrapped in the voluminous black cloak that you wore in your father’s funeral procession? (Such cloaks were more than floor-length for the most important mourners, and had deep hoods, worn pulled down over the eyes, as well as long tippets—they looked not unlike modern academic hoods.) (This is, satisfyingly, a punning materialisation of Horatio’s invocation of the day in russet mantle at the end of the previous scene, the rising sun wrapped in clouds.) A modern production probably won’t ever do this, even if it’s in Elizabethan dress, but the point is, it’s not just that Hamlet is wearing black, wearing mourning—black was a very typical, fashionable colour for court dress—he’s still dressed for the actual funeral. Probably.

Another pun. Not so, my lord, I am too much in the son. Not your son (and don’t have to do what you say—and incidentally, not changing my clothes). So Hamlet’s mother tries, her first words in the play: good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off, and let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. You need to move on, change out of your funeral clothes, your mourning gear—stop wearing black all the time (and have a shower, while you’re at it) and show your face, smile, relax—be nice to the king, Denmark, your uncle, he’s really making an effort—and show the Danish people that you’re OK too? Do not for ever with your vailed lids seek for thy noble father in the dust. Vailed is lowered, eyes downcast, but veiled is inevitably heard too, perhaps suggesting the mourning hood, which would necessitate walking with one’s eyes on the ground, as if scanning the earth for traces of the beloved dead, staring at disbelief at a fresh grave. All of Hamlet’s demeanour, his dress, his posture, his bitterness and taciturnity, manifests grief, melancholy, depression. Of course he’s going to slouch into his hoodie, stare at his shoes, will the world to leave him alone.