4. Scene IV. The platform.
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.--
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.