HAMLET.
It waves me still. —
Go on; I'll follow thee.
MARCELLUS.
You shall not go, my lord.
HAMLET.
Hold off your hands.
HORATIO.
Be rul'd; you shall not go.
HAMLET.
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.
