Mar. You shall not goe my Lord
Ham. Hold off your hand
Hor. Be rul'd, you shall not goe
Ham. My fate cries out,
And makes each petty Artire in this body,
As hardy as the Nemian Lions nerue:
Still am I cal'd? Vnhand me Gentlemen:
By Heau'n, Ile make a Ghost of him that lets me:
I say away, goe on, Ile follow thee.
Exeunt. Ghost & Hamlet.
Hor. He waxes desperate with imagination
Mar. Let's follow; 'tis not fit thus to obey him
Hor. Haue after, to what issue will this come?
Mar. Something is rotten in the State of Denmarke
Hor. Heauen will direct it
Mar. Nay, let's follow him.