It beckons you to go away with it,
As if it some impartment did desire
To you alone.
Look with what courteous action
It waves you to a more removed ground:
But do not go with it!
No, by no means.
It will not speak; then will I follow it.
Do not, my lord.
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.
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.
It waves me still. —
Go on; I'll follow thee.
You shall not go, my lord.
Hold off your hands.
Be rul'd; you shall not go.
My fate cries out,
And makes each petty artery in this body
As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve. —
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.]
He waxes desperate with imagination.
Let's follow; 'tis not fit thus to obey him.
Have after. — To what issue will this come?
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
Heaven will direct it.
Nay, let's follow him.