LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

       Ghost.

       My hour is almost come,

       When I to sulph’uous 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 wastein 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 thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres;

       Thy knotted and combined locks to part,

       And each particular hair to stand on end

       Like quills upon the fretful porcupine:

       But this eternal blazon must not be

       To ears of flesh and blood.—List, list, O, list!—

       If thou didst ever thy dear father love—

       Ham.

       O God!

       Ghost.

       Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.

       Ham.

       Murder!

       Ghost.

       Murder most foul, as in the best it is;

       But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

       Ham.

       Haste me to know’t, that I, with wings as swift

       As meditation or the thoughts of love,

       May sweep to my revenge.

       Ghost.

       I find thee apt;

       And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed

       That rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf,

       Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear.

       ‘Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard,

       A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of Denmark

       Is by a forged process of my death

       Rankly abus’d; but know, thou noble youth,

       The serpent that did sting thy father’s life

       Now wears his crown.

       Ham.

       O my prophetic soul!

       Mine uncle!

       Ghost.

       Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,

       With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,—

      

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