"...to whet thy almost blunted purpose."
Methinks the ghost was being polite. That purpose was rusted solid, caked with mud, and leaving a trace in the grass of the yard where it had been tossed for a season.
Unrelatedly, have been lifting recently instead of running. Brings some obtuseness to the mind, particularly on a traveller's diet. (Remembering the post-lifting, post-sauna peanut butter, chocolate, banana, and coffee protein shake at Gold's in the city. Tended to hit the spot.)
One of the curious moments of theatregoing in the last year was the Hamlet at the Hungarian theatre in Cluj. I saw it the night before I left on my second visit, and then coincidentally, it was scheduled for the night of my arrival for the third visit, and while I was there, appeared on the calendar for the night before I left. Only one of the unheimlich things in those visits. (Deo gratias.)
It was the old standard Hungarian adaptation with the peculiar mystic poem at the end.
[Correction, I have now checked the standard 19th c. Hungarian adaptation, and there is no mystic poem there. Apparently interpolated in the only production I've seen. Perils of actual theatregoing.]
But the uncanny thing about it was that the projected supertitles didn't use the original English text, but one of the "plain language" adaptations. As a result, the only place the actual text was happening was inside my mind, as I watched these other layers unfold.
What to do when the unheimlich is your homeland. And the only place the truth of the text seems to be is within the echoing mind.