_Ham._ O the king doth wake to night, & takes his rowse, Keepe wassel, and the swaggering vp-spring reeles, And as he dreames, his draughts of renish downe, The kettle, drumme, and trumpet, thus bray out, The triumphes of his pledge. 10 _Hor._ Is it a custome here? _Ham._ I mary i'st and though I am Natiue here, and to the maner borne, It is a custome, more honourd in the breach, Then in the obseruance. 15 _Enter the Ghost._ _Hor._ Looke my Lord, it comes. _Ham._ Angels and Ministers of grace defend vs, Be thou a spirite of health, or goblin damn'd, Bring with thee ayres from heauen, or blasts from hell: Be thy intents wicked or charitable, 20 Thou commest in such questionable shape, That I will speake to thee, Ile call thee _Hamlet_, King, Father, Royall Dane, O answere mee, let mee not burst in ignorance, But say why thy canonizd bones hearsed in death 25 Haue burst their ceremonies: why thy Sepulcher, In which wee saw thee quietly interr'd. Hath burst his ponderous and marble Iawes, To cast thee vp againe: what may this meane, That thou, dead corse, againe in compleate steele, 30 Reuissets thus the glimses of the Moone, Making night hideous, and we fooles of nature, So horridely to shake our disposition, With thoughts beyond the reaches of our soules? Say, speake, wherefore, what may this meane? 35 _Hor._ It beckons you, as though it had something To impart to you alone. _Mar._ Looke with what courteous action It waues you to a more remoued ground, But do not go with it. 40 _Hor._ No, by no meanes my Lord. _Ham._ It will not speake, then will I follow it. _Hor._ What if it tempt you toward the flood my Lord. That beckles ore his bace, into the sea, And there assume some other horrible shape, 45 Which might depriue your soueraigntie of reason, And driue you into madnesse: thinke of it. _Ham._ Still am I called, go on, ile follow thee. _Hor._ My Lord, you shall not go. _Ham._ Why what should be the feare? 50 I do not set my life at a pinnes fee, And for my soule, what can it do to that? Being a thing immortall, like it selfe, Go on, ile follow thee. _Mar._ My Lord be rulde, you shall not goe. 55 _Ham._ My fate cries out, and makes each pety Artiue As hardy as the Nemeon Lyons nerue, Still am I cald, vnhand me gentlemen; By heauen ile make a ghost of him that lets me, Away I say, go on, ile follow thee. 60 _Hor._ He waxeth desperate with imagination.