Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 4

The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.

The air bites harshly; it is very cold.

It is a nipping and an eager air.

It is a biting, sharp 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 did not hear it. Then it is getting close to the time 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 deep, holding a party, and reeling through the wild dance; 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 this way of doing things, it is a custom better broken than kept. This dull-headed drinking makes us slandered and criticized by other nations everywhere: they call us drunkards, and with pig-like talk they stain our reputation. And truly it takes away from what we achieve, however superbly done, the very heart and substance of our good name. So it often happens with individual men that because of some ugly blemish in their nature — whether in their birth, for which they are not to blame, since a person cannot choose where he comes from; or through the excessive growth of some one disposition, which often breaks down the fences and defenses of reason; or through some habit that works too strongly through the shape of their otherwise pleasing manners — that these men, carrying, as I say, the mark of one flaw, whether it is Nature's uniform or a star assigned by Fortune, find that all their other virtues, pure as grace itself and as boundless as a man can hold, become corrupted in the general judgment by that one particular fault. The tiny drop of evil drags all the noble substance down into disgrace with it.

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 messengers of grace, defend us! Whether you are a good spirit or a damned goblin, whether you bring with you breezes from heaven or scorching blasts from hell, whether your intentions are wicked or kind, you come in such a form that I must question it, so I will speak to you. I will call you Hamlet, King, father, royal Dane. Oh, answer me! Do not let me break apart in ignorance; tell me why your blessed bones, laid in their coffin in death, have burst out of their burial wrappings; why the tomb, in which we saw you quietly laid, has opened its heavy marble jaws to throw you out again! What can it mean that you, a dead body, in full armor again, come back like this into the faint moonlight, making the night horrible, and make us, the helpless creatures of nature, shake in our very being so dreadfully with thoughts that go beyond what our souls can grasp? Speak, why is this? For what reason? What should we do?

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

It is signaling for you to go away with it, as if it wanted to tell something to you alone.

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 to a place further off. But do not go with it.

No, by no means.

No, definitely not.

It will not speak; then will I follow it.

It will not speak; so I will follow it.

Do not, my lord.

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.

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 is? It waves me forward again. I will 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 terrifying top of the cliff that juts out over its base into the sea, and there takes on some other horrible shape that could rob you of your reason's rule and drive you into madness? Think about it. The place itself, with no other cause, puts wild, desperate fancies into the mind of anyone 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 keeps waving me on. Go ahead, I will 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.

Be guided by us; 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 will make a ghost of anyone who holds me back. I tell you, get away! — Go ahead, I will follow you.

He waxes desperate with imagination.

He is growing reckless with imagination.

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

Let's follow him; it is not right to obey him in this.

Have after. To what issue will this come?

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

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

Heaven will direct it.

Heaven will set it right.

Nay, let’s follow him.

No, let's follow him.