The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Уильям Шекспир

nations;

          They clip us drunkards and with swinish phrase

          Soil our addition; and indeed it takes

          From our achievements, though perform'd at height,

          The pith and marrow of our attribute.

          So oft it chances in particular men

          That, for some vicious mole of nature in them,

          As in their birth, – wherein they are not guilty,

          Since nature cannot choose his origin, -

          By the o'ergrowth of some complexion,

          Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason,

          Or by some habit that too much o'erleavens

          The form of plausive manners, that these men

          Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,

          Being nature's livery, or fortune's star,

          Their virtues else- be they as pure as grace,

          As infinite as man may undergo-

          Shall in the general censure take corruption

          From that particular fault. The dram of e'il

          Doth all the noble substance often dout To his own scandal.

      Enter Ghost.

        Hor. Look, my lord, it comes!

        Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend us!

          Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd,

          Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,

          Be thy intents wicked or charitable,

          Thou com'st in such a questionable shape

          That I will speak to thee. I'll call thee Hamlet,

          King, father, royal Dane. O, answer me?

          Let me not burst in ignorance, but tell

          Why thy canoniz'd bones, hearsed in death,

          Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre

          Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn'd,

          Hath op'd his ponderous and marble jaws

          To cast thee up again. What may this mean

          That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel,

          Revisits thus the glimpses of the moon,

          Making night hideous, and we fools of nature

          So horridly to shake our disposition

          With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?

          Say, why is this? wherefore? What should we do?

                                                 Ghost beckons Hamlet.

        Hor. It beckons you to go away with it,

          As if it some impartment did desire

          To you alone.

        Mar. Look with what courteous action

          It waves you to a more removed ground.

          But do not go with it!

        Hor. No, by no means!

        Ham. It will not speak. Then will I follow it.

        Hor. Do not, my lord!

        Ham. Why, what should be the fear?

          I do not set my life at a pin's fee;

          And for my soul, what can it do to that,

          Being a thing immortal as itself?

          It waves me forth again. I'll follow it.

        Hor. What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord,

          Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff

          That beetles o'er his base into the sea,

          And there assume some other, horrible form

          Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason

          And draw you into madness? Think of it.

          The very place puts toys of desperation,

          Without more motive, into every brain

          That looks so many fadoms to the sea

          And hears it roar beneath.

        Ham. It waves me still.

          Go on. I'll follow thee.

        Mar. You shall not go, my lord.

        Ham. Hold off your hands!

        Hor. Be rul'd. You shall not go.

        Ham. My fate cries out

          And makes each petty artire in this body

          As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve.

                                                      [Ghost beckons.]

          Still am I call'd. Unhand me, gentlemen.

          By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me! -

          I say, away! – Go on. I'll follow thee.

Exeunt Ghost and Hamlet

        Hor. He waxes desperate with imagination.

        Mar. Let's follow. 'Tis not fit thus to obey him.

        Hor. Have after. To what issue wail this come?

        Mar. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

        Hor. Heaven will direct it.

        Mar. Nay, let's follow him.

Exeunt

      Scene V. Elsinore. The Castle. Another part of the fortifications

      Enter Ghost and Hamlet.

        Ham. Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak! I'll go no further.

        Ghost. Mark me.

        Ham. I will.

        Ghost. My hour is almost come,

          When I to sulph'rous and tormenting flames

          Must render up myself.

        Ham. Alas, poor ghost!

        Ghost. Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing

          To what I shall unfold.

        Ham. Speak. I am bound to hear.

        Ghost. So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.

        Ham. What?

        Ghost. I am thy father's spirit,

          Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night,

          And for the day confin'd to fast in fires,

          Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature

          Are burnt and purg'd away. But that I am forbid

          To tell the secrets of my prison house,

          I could a tale unfold whose lightest word

          Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,

          Make