HAMLET. William Shakespeare

flourish of trumpets, and ordnance shot off within.]

       What does this mean, my lord?

       Ham.

       The King doth wake tonight and takes his rouse,

       Keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-spring reels;

       And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,

       The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out

       The triumph of his pledge.

       Hor.

       Is it a custom?

       Ham.

       Ay, marry, is’t;

       But to my mind,—though I am native here,

       And to the manner born,—it is a custom

       More honour’d in the breach than the observance.

       This heavy-headed revel east and west

       Makes us traduc’d and tax’d of other nations:

       They clepe 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’er-leavens

       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 eale

       Doth all the noble substance often doubt

       To his own scandal.

       Hor.

       Look, my lord, it comes!

       [Enter Ghost.]

       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 in-urn’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,

       Revisit’st 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 artery in this body

       As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.—

       [Ghost beckons.]

       Still am I call’d;—unhand me, gentlemen;—

       [Breaking free from them.]

       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 will 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. A more remote part of the Castle.

       [Enter Ghost and Hamlet.]

       Ham.

       Whither wilt thou lead me? speak! I’ll go no further.

       Ghost.

       Mark me.

       Ham.

       I will.