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Hamlet is merely toying with your affections. For him, what there is between you is little more than a passing phase, a youthful dalliance. His feelings for you will not last; they are not genuine or wholehearted.
Do you really believe this is true?
Still here, Laertes? You’d better board your ship; they’re waiting for you. The winds are blowing favourably.
Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.
The air bites sharply, it is very cold. What hour is it now?
It is a bitter and keen air. I think it’s just before twelve
The king stays up late tonight, carousing. He consumes alcohol and makes merry with abandon, carelessly parading his own self-indulgence, dancing in drunken revelry, with little sense of the dignity befitting of his position. And as he continues his incessant drinking, the kettle-drum and trumpets sound; a signal for the cannons to be fired in celebration.
Is it a custom?
It beckons you to go away with it, as if it wishes to impart something to you alone.
Look how it waves you towards more remote ground. But do not go with it.
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