Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 4

The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.

The air bites sharply; it is very cold.

It is a nipping and an eager air.

It is a biting, keen air.

What hour now?

What time is it now?

I think it lacks of twelve.

I think it is not quite twelve.

No, it is struck.

No, it has already struck.

Indeed? I heard it not. It then draws near the season Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.

Really? I didn't hear it. Then the time is coming close when the spirit usually walks.

What does this mean, my lord?

What does this mean, my lord?

The King doth wake tonight and takes his rouse, Keeps wassail, and the swaggering upspring reels; And as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down, The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out The triumph of his pledge.

The King is staying up tonight and drinking deeply, holding a party, and the swaggering dance whirls along; and as he swallows down his cups of Rhine wine, the kettle-drum and trumpet blare out like this to celebrate his toast.

Is it a custom?

Is it a custom?

Ay marry is’t; And 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 their o’ergrowth of some complexion, Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason; Or by some habit, that too much o’erleavens The form of plausive manners;—that these men, Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, Being Nature’s livery or Fortune’s star,— His 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 evil Doth all the noble substance of a doubt To his own scandal.

Yes indeed it is; and to my mind, though I was born here and brought up to the practice, it is a custom better broken than kept. This dull-headed partying makes us criticised and blamed by other nations east and west: they call us drunkards, and with pig-like words dirty our title; and truly it takes away from our achievements, however finely carried out, the very heart and core of the credit due to us. So it often happens with individual men that because of some ugly blemish in their nature — as in their birth, for which they are not to blame, since nature cannot choose its own origin; or through some temperament grown too strong in them, often smashing down the fences and forts of reason; or through some habit that puts too much sourness into the shape of their otherwise pleasing manners — that these men, carrying, I say, the mark of a single defect, whether it comes as Nature's uniform or Fortune's star, have all their other virtues — be they as pure as grace, as limitless as a man can bear — take on corruption in the general judgement from that one particular fault. The tiny drop of evil brings all the noble substance into question, to its own disgrace.

Look, my lord, it comes!

Look, my lord, it is coming!

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 inurn’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?

Angels and servants of grace, defend us! Whether you are a healing spirit or a damned goblin, whether you bring with you breezes from heaven or blasts from hell, whether your intentions are evil or kind, you come in such a shape inviting questions that I will speak to you. I'll call you Hamlet, King, father, royal Dane. Oh, answer me! Don't let me break apart in ignorance; but tell me why your blessed bones, laid in a coffin in death, have burst their burial wrappings; why the tomb, in which we saw you quietly laid to rest, has opened its heavy marble jaws to throw you up again! What can it mean that you, a dead body, again in full armour, come back like this into the moon's faint light, making the night horrible, and make us, nature's fools, shake our whole being so dreadfully with thoughts beyond what our souls can reach? Say, why is this? For what purpose? What should we do?

It beckons you to go away with it, As if it some impartment did desire To you alone.

It is signalling you to go away with it, as if it wanted to tell you something privately.

Look with what courteous action It waves you to a more removed ground. But do not go with it.

Look how politely it waves you toward a place further off. But don't go with it.

No, by no means.

No, on no account.

It will not speak; then will I follow it.

It won't speak; then I will follow it.

Do not, my lord.

Don't, 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.

Why, what is there to be afraid of? I value my life at less than the price of a pin; and as for my soul, what can it do to that, since my soul is as immortal as the ghost itself? It waves me forward 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 fathoms to the sea And hears it roar beneath.

What if it lures you toward the water, my lord, or to the terrible top of the cliff that juts out over its base into the sea, and there takes on some other horrible shape which might rob your reason of its rule and drive you into madness? Think about it. The place itself puts wild, desperate fancies, with no other cause needed, into anyone's mind who looks down so many fathoms to the sea and hears it roaring below.

It waves me still. Go on, I’ll follow thee.

It is still waving me on. Go ahead, I'll follow you.

You shall not go, my lord.

You shall not go, my lord.

Hold off your hands.

Take your hands off me.

Be rul’d; you shall not go.

Let yourself be guided; you shall not go.

My fate cries out, And makes each petty artery in this body As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.

My fate is calling out, and it makes every small artery in this body as tough as the sinew of the Nemean lion.

Still am I call’d. Unhand me, gentlemen.

I am still being called. Let go of me, gentlemen.

By heaven, I’ll make a ghost of him that lets me. I say, away!—Go on, I’ll follow thee.

By heaven, I'll make a ghost of anyone who holds me back. Get away, I tell you!—Go ahead, I'll follow you.

He waxes desperate with imagination.

His imagination is driving him to desperation.

Let’s follow; ’tis not fit thus to obey him.

Let's follow him; it isn't right to obey him in this.

Have after. To what issue will this come?

Let's go after him. What will this all come to?

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

Something is rotten in the country of Denmark.

Heaven will direct it.

Heaven will guide it.

Nay, let’s follow him.

No, let's follow him.