It waves me still. Go on; I’ll follow thee.
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. 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 .
Another part of the platform.
My hour is almost come, When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames Must render up myself.
Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing To what I shall unfold.