Hamlet. Macbeth / Гамлет. Макбет - стр. 12

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 fathoms 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.

[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.

[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.

[Exeunt]

Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak, I'll go

                         no further.

Mark me.

I will.

My hour is almost come,

When I to sulph'rous and tormenting flames

Must render up myself.

Alas, poor ghost!

Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing

To what I shall unfold.

Speak, I am bound to hear.

So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.

What?

I am thy father's spirit,

Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night,

And for the day confin'd to fast in fires,

Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature

Are burnt and purg'd away. But that I am forbid

To tell the secrets of my prison-house,

I could a tale unfold whose lightest word

Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young

                         blood,

Make thy two eyes like stars start from their

                         spheres,

Thy knotted and combined locks to part,

And each particular hair to stand on end

Like quills upon the fretful porpentine.

But this eternal blazon must not be

To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O, list!

If thou didst ever thy dear father love —

O God!

Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.

Murder!

Murder most foul, as in the best it is;

But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

Haste me to know't, that I, with wings as swift