Franco Zeffirelli: The Art of Entertainment Page #3

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- Did you not speak to it?

- My lord, I did, but answer made it none.

Yet once methought it lifted up its head...

and did address itself to motion,

like as it would speak.

But even then

the morning cock crew loud...

and at the sound it shrank in haste away

and vanished from our sight.

'Tis very strange.

- As I do live, my honored lord, 'tis true.

- Indeed, sirs, but this troubles me.

- Hold you the watch tonight?

- We do, my lord.

What, looked he frowningly?

A countenance more in sorrow

than in anger.

- And fixed his eyes upon you?

- Most constantly.

- I would I had been there.

- It would have much amazed you.

I will watch tonight.

Perchance it will walk again.

I warrant it will.

If you have hitherto concealed this sight,

let it be tenable in your silence still.

Our duty to your honor.

Your loves, as mine to you. Farewell.

My father's spirit.

All is not well.

I doubt some foul play.

Would the night were come.

Till then sit still, my soul.

Foul deeds will rise...

though all the earth overwhelm them,

to men's eyes.

No jocund health

that Denmark drinks today...

but the great cannon

to the clouds shall tell!

What does this mean, my lord?

Is it a custom?

Ay, marry is it.

But to my mind a custom more honored

in the breach than the observance.

This heavy-headed revel east and west...

makes us traduced and taxed

of other nations.

They clepe us drunkards...

and indeed, it soils the pith and marrow

of our attribute.

The air bites shrewdly. It is very cold.

What hour now?

It draws near the season

wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.

So oft it chances in particular men...

that for some vicious mole of nature

in them...

their virtues else,

be they as pure as grace...

shall in the general censure

take corruption...

from that particular fault.

Look, my lord, it comes!

Angels and ministers of grace defend us.

Be thou a spirit of health

or goblin damned...

bring with thee airs from heaven

or blasts from hell...

be thy intents wicked or charitable...

I will speak to thee.

I'll call thee Hamlet...

King, father...

royal Dane.

Answer me.

- Do not, my lord.

- 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?

What if it tempt you toward the flood,

my lord...

or to the dreadful summit of the cliff

that beetles over 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.

I'll follow it.

- You shall not go, my lord!

- Hold off your hands!

By heaven,

I'll make a ghost of him that lets me!

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