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,