He may approve our eyes, and speak to it. And let us once again assail your ears, What we two nights have seen. Hor. Sit down awh Well, sit we down, And let us hear Bernardo speak of this. Ber. Last night of all, When yon 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 a Enter Ghost. Ber. In the same figure, like the king that's dead. Mar Speak to 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. Mar. 'Tis gone, and will not answer. Ber. How now, Horatio? you tremble, and look pal Is not this something more than fantasy? What think you of it? Hor. I might not this believe. Ber. It was about to speak, when the cock crew. Hor. And then it started like Upon a fearful summons a guilty thing I hayo h The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, Mar. It faded on the crowing of the cock. Hor. So have I heard, and do in part believe it. Enter the KING, QUEEN, HAMLET, POLONIUS, LAERTES, Lord's, and King. Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death The memory be green; and that it us befitted o bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom o be contracted in one brow of woe; et so far hath discretion fought with nature, hat we with wisest sorrow think on him, ogether with remembrance of ourselves. herefore our sometime sister, now our queen, ne imperial jointress of this warlike state, ave we, as 'twere, with a defeated joy, ken to wife: nor have we herein barr'd ur better wisdoms, which have freely gone th this affair along:- For all, our thanks. d now, Laertes, what's the news with you? u told us of some suit? What is't, Laertes ? Laertes. My dread lord, ur leave and favor to return to France; Ham. Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems. 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, King. 'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, To do obsequious sorrow: But to perséver Of impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief: An understanding simple and unschool'd: |