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Be some-thing scanter of your maiden presence
Set your intreatments at a higher rate
Then a command to parle ; for lord Hamlet,
Belieue so much in him, that he is young,
And with a larger teder may he walke
Then may be giuen you : in few Ophelia,
Doe not belieue his vowes, for they are brokers
Not of that die which their inueftments show
But meere implorators of vaholy suites,
Breathing like fanctified and pious bonds
The better to beguile +: this is for all,
I would not in plaine termes from this time foorth
you so faunder any moments leasure
As to giue words or talke with the lord Hamlet,
Looke too't I charge you, come your wayes.
Ophe. I shall obey my lord.
Enter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus.
Ham. The ayre bites shroudly, it is very colde. .
Hora. It is nipping, and an eager ayre.
Ham. What hour now?
Hora. I thinke it lackes of twelue.
Mar. No, it is strooke.
Hor. Indeede; I heard it not, it then drawes neere the season Wherein the spirit held his wont to walke.
A florise of trumpets and 2 peeces goes off. Ham. The king doth walke I to night and takes his rowse. Keepes wassell and the swaggring vp-spring reeles : And as he draines his drafts of Rennis downe, The kettle drumme and trumpet, thus bray out The triumph of his pledge.
Hora. Is it a custome?
Ham. I marry ift,
But to my mind, though I am natiue heere
And to the manner borne, it is a custome
More honourd in the breach, then the obseruance.
This heauy-headed reuelle east and west
Makes vs traduc'd and taxed of other nations,
They clip vs drunkards and with swinish phrase
Soyle our addition, and indeed it takes
From our atchievements, though perform’d at height
The pith and marow of our attribute,
So oft it chances in particuler men,
That for some vitious mole of nature in them
As in their birth wherein they are not guilty,
(Since nature cannot choose his origen)
By their ore-grow’th of some complexion
Oft breaking downe the pales and forts of reason,
Or by some habite that too much ore-leauens
The forme of plausiue manners, that these men
Carrying I say the stamp of one defect
Being natures liuery, or fortunes starre,
His vertues els be they as pure as grace,
As infinit as man may vndergoe,
Shall in the generall censure take corruption
From that particular fault : the dram of ease *
Doth all the noble substance of a doubt
To his own scandall.
Hora. Looke my lord it comes.
Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend vs !
Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd,
Bring with thee ayres from heauen, or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked or charitable,
Thou com’it in such a questionable shape,
That I will speake to thee, Ile call thee Hamlet,
King, father, royall Dane, ò answere mee,
Let mee not burst in ignorance, but tell
Why thy canoniz'd bones hearsed in death
Haue burst their cerements? why the sepulcher,
Wherein wee saw thee quietly interr'd
Hath opt his ponderous and marble iawes,
To cast thee vp againe ? what may this meane
That thou dead corse, againe in compleat steele
Reuisites thus the glimses of the moone,
Making night hideous, and wee fooles of nature
So horridly to shake our disposition
With thoughtes beyond the reaches of our soules,
Say why is this, wherefore, what should we doe?
Hora. It beckons you to goe away with it
As if it some impartment did desire
To you alone.
Mar. Looke with what curteous action
It waues you to a more remooued ground,
But doe not goe with it.
Hora. No, by no meanes.
Ham. It will not speake, then I will follow it.
Hora. Doe not my
Ham. Why? what should bee the feare,
I doe not set my life at a pinnes fee,
And for my foule, what can it doe to that
Being a thing immortall as * it felfe;
It waues me forth againe, Ile follow it.
Hora. What if it tempt you towards the flood my lord,
Or to the dreadfull fomnet of the cleefe
That bettels ore his base into the sea,
And there assume some other horrible forme
Which might depriue your foueraignty of reason,
And drawe you into madneffe, thinke of it,
The very place puts toyes of desperation
Without more motiue, into euery braine
That lookes so many fadoms to the sea
And heares it rore beneath.
Ham. It waues me still,
Goe on, Ile follow thee.
Mar. You shall not goe my
Ham. Hold of your hands.
Hora. Be ruld, you shall not goe.
Ham. My fate cries out
And makes each petty artyre* in this body
As hardy as the Nemean lyons nerue ;
Still am I cald, ynhand me gentlemen
By heauen Ile make a ghost of him that lets me,
I say away, goe one t, Ile follow thee.
Exit Ghost and Hamlet,
Hor. He waxes desperate with imagination.
Mar. Lets follow, tis not fit thus to obey him,
Hora. Haue after, to what issue will this come?
Mar. Something is rotten in the state of Denmarke.
Hora. Heauen will direct it.
Mar. Nay lets follow him.
Enter Ghost and Hamlet.
Ham. Whether wilt thou leade me, speake, Ile goe no further.
Ghoft. Marke me.
Ham, I will.
Ghost. My houre is almost come
When I to sulphrous and tormenting flames
Must render vp my selfe.
Ham. Alaffe poore ghost.
Ghost. Pitty me not, but lend thy serious hearing
To what I shall vnfold.
Ham. Speake I am bound to here.
Ghoft. So art thou to reuenge, when thou shalt heare.
Ham. What ?
Ghost. I am thy fathers spirit,
Doomd for a certaine tearme to walke the night
And for the day confind to fast in fires,
Till the foule crimes done in my daies of nature
Are burnt and purg'd åway: but that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
I could a tale vnfolde whose lightest word
Would harrow vp thy soule, freeze thy young blood,
Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres,
Thy knotted and combined locks to part,
And each particular haire to stand an end,
Like quils vpon the fearefull porpentine :
But this eternall blazon must not be
To eares of flesh and blood, lift, lift, o list,
If thou did'st euer thy deare father loue,
Ham. O God.
Ghost. Reuenge his foule *, and most vnnaturall marther.
Ghost. Murther most foule, as in the best it is,
But this most foule, strange and ynnaturall.
Ham. Hast me to know't, that I with wings as swift,
As meditation, or the thoughts of loue
May sweepe to my reuenge.
Ghost. I find thee apt,
And duller shouldest thou be then the fat weede
That rootes it felfe in ease on Lethe wharffe,
Would't thou not Iturre in this; now Hamlet heare,
Tis giuen out, that sleeping in my orchard,