HORATIO These are but wild and whirling words, my lord.
HAMLET I am sorry they offend you – heartily,
Yes, faith, heartily.
HORATIO There’s no offence, my lord.
HAMLET Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio,
And much offence too. Touching this vision here
It is an honest ghost – that let me tell you.
For your desire to know what is between us
O’ermaster it as you may. And now, good friends,
As you are friends, scholars and soldiers,
Give me one poor request. (1.5.132-141)
These are but wild and whirling words, my lord. Come on, calm down, let’s talk about this, says Horatio. You’re sounding, well, a bit mad? You’re getting yourself properly worked up, into one of your states. Hamlet’s still in orbit: I am sorry they offend you—heartily, yes, faith, heartily. Sorry sorry sorry, I didn’t mean to offend, didn’t mean to hurt you, would never hurt you, sorry sorry sorry. It can feel really precarious, teetering into mania, Hamlet in a danger-zone his friend recognises all too well. So Horatio’s calm, reassuring: there’s no offence, my lord. Honestly, it’s not a problem. Take your time, here for you. Offence is the word that Hamlet seizes on: yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio, and much offence too. Such a great offence, you have no idea. (Editors suggest that Patrick is appropriate because of his association with purgatory, or with banishing snakes, Claudius being the snake—but it could be argued as well that the incongruity is the point, Hamlet casting around desperately, swearing by the most random saint that pops into his head, please believe me, ok?)
He’s a little calmer; he realises he’s talking to Horatio, his friend. Touching this vision here—the, er ghost—it is an honest ghost. I can tell you that much; it’s legit, deadly serious, I believe it; it’s telling the truth. But beyond that—for your desire to know what is between us o’ermaster it as you may. In so far as you’d really like me to tell you the specifics of what the Ghost just told me: sorry, no can do. You’ll just have to deal with it, I can’t tell you any more than I just have. (His verse and syntax have settled; Hamlet’s got himself under control, a bit, he knows how to move forward, at least in the moment.) And now, good friends, as you are friends—and he can give Horatio a particularly grateful glance (thanks, mate, as ever, you know me, my own worst enemy)—scholars and soldiers. On your honour, as men of thought and action, men of integrity, men of your word, and as my friends (there’s calculation too, a touch of manipulativeness: if you’re really my friends do as I say): give me one poor request. Do me just one tiny little favour?