Hamlet Act 1 Scene 4
Elsinore. The platform before the castle. Midnight.
The Original
Plain Modern English
Enter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus.
Hamlet
The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.
Hamlet
The air bites sharply. It's bitterly cold.
Horatio
It is a nipping and an eager air.
Horatio
It's a biting, cutting air.
Hamlet
What hour now?
Hamlet
What time is it?
Horatio
I think it lacks of twelve.
Horatio
Not quite twelve, I think.
Marcellus
No, it is struck.
Marcellus
No — it's already struck.
Horatio
Indeed? I heard it not. It then draws near the season
Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.
Horatio
Really? I didn't hear it. Then it's near the time
when the spirit usually walks.
A flourish of trumpets, and two cannon shots.
Horatio
What does this mean, my lord?
Horatio
What does that mean, my lord?
Hamlet
The King doth wake to-night and takes his rouse,
Keeps wassail, and the swagg'ring upspring reels,
And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,
The kettledrum and trumpet thus bray out
The triumph of his pledge.
Hamlet
The King is up drinking tonight,
holding a party, reeling through wild dances;
and as he drains his cups of Rhine wine,
the kettledrum and trumpet bray out
in triumph at his toast.
Horatio
Is it a custom?
Horatio
Is that a custom here?
Hamlet
Ay, marry, is't;
But 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 clip 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 the 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,
Their 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.
Hamlet
It certainly is.
But in my opinion — though I was born here
and raised to it — it's a custom
better broken than kept.
This thick-headed partying, east and west,
gets us slandered and criticised by other countries.
They call us drunks and use pig-words
to smear our reputation — and it genuinely strips
our achievements, however great,
of their real substance and worth.
It often happens to individual men too:
that because of some single flaw in their nature —
present from birth, which isn't their fault,
since nobody chooses their origins —
or from some temperament grown too strong,
often breaking down the defences of reason,
or from some habit that overwhelms
their otherwise pleasing manners — that these men,
carrying the mark of one single defect,
whether nature's uniform or fortune's bad luck,
find all their other virtues — pure as grace,
as infinite as a man can possess —
corrupted in public opinion
by that one particular fault.
Enter the Ghost.
Horatio
Look, my lord, it comes!
Horatio
Look, my lord — it's coming!
Hamlet
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,
Revisits 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?
Hamlet
Angels and ministers of grace defend us!
Whether you're a good spirit or a damned goblin,
whether you bring breezes from heaven or blasts from hell,
whether your intentions are evil or kind,
you come in such an approachable form
that I'm going to speak to you. I'll call you Hamlet,
King, father, royal Dane. Oh, answer me!
Don't let me burst from not knowing. Tell me
why your blessed bones, sealed in death,
have broken out of their shroud; why the tomb
where we saw you quietly buried
has opened its heavy marble jaws
to throw you out again. What can it mean
that you, a dead body, in full armour again,
come back into the moonlight,
making the night hideous — and we, nature's fools,
are so horribly shaken
by thoughts beyond what our souls can reach?
Tell us — why is this? What for? What should we do?
The Ghost beckons Hamlet.
Horatio
It beckons you to go away with it,
As if it some impartment did desire
To you alone.
Horatio
It's beckoning you to go with it,
as if it wants to tell something
to you alone.
Marcellus
Look with what courteous action
It waves you to a more removed ground.
But do not go with it!
Marcellus
Look how politely
it's waving you to a more private spot.
But don't go with it!
Horatio
No, by no means!
Horatio
No — absolutely not!
Hamlet
It will not speak. Then will I follow it.
Hamlet
It won't speak. Then I'll follow it.
Horatio
Do not, my lord!
Horatio
Don't, my lord!
Hamlet
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.
Hamlet
Why — what's there to be afraid of?
I don't value my life at the price of a pin.
And as for my soul — what can it do to that,
when my soul is as immortal as it is?
It's waving me on again. I'll follow.
Horatio
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.
Horatio
What if it lures you toward the sea, my lord,
or to the terrifying top of that cliff
that overhangs its base into the water,
and there takes on some other horrible shape
that might rob you of your reason
and drive you mad? Think about it.
The place itself puts desperate impulses,
without any other cause, into any mind
that looks down so many fathoms to the sea
and hears it roaring below.
Hamlet
It waves me still.
Go on. I'll follow thee.
Hamlet
It's still waving me on.
Go ahead. I'll follow you.
Marcellus
You shall not go, my lord.
Marcellus
You're not going, my lord.
Hamlet
Hold off your hands!
Hamlet
Take your hands off me!
Horatio
Be rul'd. You shall not go.
Horatio
Listen to reason. You're not going.
Hamlet
My fate cries out
And makes each petty artire in this body
As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve.
Still am I call'd. Unhand me, gentlemen.
By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me!—
I say, away!— Go on. I'll follow thee.
Hamlet
My destiny is calling,
and it's making every small artery in this body
as tough as the Nemean lion's sinew.
I'm still being called. Let go of me, gentlemen.
By heaven, I'll make a ghost of anyone who stops me! —
Get off, I say! — Go on. I'll follow you.
Exeunt Ghost and Hamlet.
Horatio
He waxes desperate with imagination.
Horatio
He's growing desperate with imagination.
Marcellus
Let's follow. 'Tis not fit thus to obey him.
Marcellus
Let's follow. It's wrong to obey him in this.
Horatio
Have after. To what issue will this come?
Horatio
After him. How will this end?
Marcellus
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
Marcellus
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
Horatio
Heaven will direct it.
Horatio
Heaven will guide it.
Marcellus
Nay, let's follow him.
Marcellus
No — let's follow him.
Exeunt.