LITMIR.BIZ

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‘Tis now struck twelve. Get thee to bed, Francisco.

       Fran.

       For this relief much thanks: ‘tis bitter cold,

       And I am sick at heart.

       Ber.

       Have you had quiet guard?

       Fran.

       Not a mouse stirring.

       Ber.

       Well, good night.

       If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus,

       The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste.

       Fran.

       I think I hear them.—Stand, ho! Who is there?

       [Enter Horatio and Marcellus.]

       Hor.

       Friends to this ground.

       Mar.

       And liegemen to the Dane.

       Fran.

       Give you goodnight.

       Mar.

       O, farewell, honest soldier;

       Who hath reliev’d you?

       Fran.

       Bernardo has my place.

       Give you goodnight.

       [Exit.]

       Mar.

       Holla! Bernardo!

       Ber.

       Say.

       What, is Horatio there?

       Hor.

       A piece of him.

       Ber.

       Welcome, Horatio:—Welcome, good Marcellus.

       Mar.

       What, has this thing appear’d again tonight?

       Ber.

       I have seen nothing.

       Mar.

       Horatio says ‘tis but our fantasy,

       And will not let belief take hold of him

       Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us:

       Therefore I have entreated him along

       With us to watch the minutes of this night;

       That, if again this apparition come

       He may approve our eyes and speak to it.

       Hor.

       Tush, tush, ‘twill not appear.

       Ber.

       Sit down awhile,

       And let us once again assail your ears,

       That are so fortified against our story,

       What we two nights have seen.

       Hor.

       Well, sit we down,

       And let us hear Bernardo speak of this.

       Ber.

       Last night of all,

       When yond same star that’s westward from the pole

       Had made his course to illume that part of heaven

       Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself,

       The bell then beating one,—

       Mar.

       Peace, break thee off; look where it comes again!

       [Enter Ghost, armed.]

       Ber.

       In the same figure, like the king that’s dead.

       Mar.

       Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio.

       Ber.

       Looks it not like the King? mark it, Horatio.

       Hor.

       Most like:—it harrows me with fear and wonder.

       Ber.

       It would be spoke to.

       Mar.

       Question it, Horatio.

       Hor.

       What art thou, that usurp’st this time of night,

       Together with that fair and warlike form

       In which the majesty of buried Denmark

       Did sometimes march? By heaven I charge thee, speak!

       Mar.

       It is offended.

       Ber.

       See, it stalks away!

       Hor.

       Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee speak!

       [Exit Ghost.]

       Mar.

       ‘Tis gone, and will not answer.

       Ber.

       How now, Horatio! You tremble and look pale:

       Is not this something more than fantasy?

       What think you on’t?

       Hor.

       Before my God, I might not this believe

       Without the sensible and true avouch

       Of mine own eyes.

       Mar.

       Is it not like the King?

       Hor.

       As thou art to thyself:

       Such was the very armour he had on

       When he the ambitious Norway combated;

       So frown’d he once when, in an angry parle,

       He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice.

       ‘Tis strange.

       Mar.

       Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour,

       With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.

       Hor.

       In what particular thought to work I know not;

       But, in the gross and scope of my opinion,

       This bodes some strange eruption to our state.

       Mar.

       Good now, sit down, and tell me, he that knows,

       Why this same strict and most observant watch

       So nightly toils the subject of the land;

       And why such daily cast of brazen cannon,

       And foreign mart for implements of war;

       Why such impress of shipwrights, whose sore task

       Does not divide the Sunday from the week;

       What might be toward, that this sweaty haste

       Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day:

       Who is’t that can inform me?

       Hor.

       That can I;

       At least, the whisper goes so. Our last king,

       Whose image even but now appear’d to us,

       Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway,

       Thereto prick’d on by a most emulate pride,

       Dar’d to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet,—

       For so this side of our known world esteem’d him,—

       Did slay this Fortinbras; who, by a seal’d compact,

       Well ratified by law and heraldry,

       Did forfeit, with his life, all those his lands,

       Which he stood seiz’d of, to the conqueror:

       Against the which,

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