Act 1 - Scene 4
Enter HAMLET, HORATIO, and MARCELLUS
The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.
It is a nipping and an eager air.
What hour now?
I think it lacks of twelve.
No, it is struck.
Indeed? I heard it not: then it draws near the season
Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.
A flourish of trumpets, and ordnance shot off, within
What does this mean, my lord?
The king doth wake to-night and takes his rouse,
Keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-spring reels;
as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,
The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out
The triumph of his
Is it a custom?
Ay, marry, is't:
But to my mind, though I am native here
And to the manner born, it is a custom
in the breach than the observance.
This heavy-headed revel east and west
Makes us traduced and tax'd
of other nations:
They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase
Soil our addition; and indeed it takes
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 birthwherein they are not
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'er-leavens
The form of plausive manners,
that these men,
Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,
Being nature's livery, or fortune's star,
elsebe they as pure as grace,
As infinite as man may undergo
Shall in the general censure take corruption
that particular fault: the dram of eale
Doth all the noble substance of a doubt
To his own scandal.
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