Marcellus: Peace, break thee off. Look where it comes again.
Enter Ghost.
Barnardo: In the same figure, like the King that’s dead.
Marcellus: Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio.
Barnardo: Looks it not like the King? Mark it, Horatio.
Horatio: Most like. It harrows me with fear and wonder.
BARNARDO It would be spoke to.
Marcellus: Question it, Horatio.
Horatio: 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.
Marcellus: It is offended.
Barnardo: See, it stalks away.
Horatio: Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee speak!
Exit Ghost.
Marcellus: ’Tis gone, and will not answer.
Barnardo: How now, Horatio! You tremble and look pale. Is not this something more than fantasy? What think you on’t?
Horatio: Before my God, I might not this believe Without the sensible and true avouch Of mine own eyes.
Marcellus: Is it not like the King?
Horatio: As thou art to thyself: Such was the very armour he had on When he th’ambitious Norway combated; So frown’d he once, when in an angry parle He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice. ’Tis strange.
Marcellus: Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour, With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.
Horatio: 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.
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