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.
BERNARDO.
See, it stalks away!
HORATIO.
Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee speak!
[Exit Ghost.]
MARCELLUS.
'Tis gone, and will not answer.
BERNARDO.
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 the ambitious Norway combated;
So frown'd he once when, in an angry parle,
He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice.
'Tis strange.
