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!

How now, Horatio! you tremble and look pale: Is not this something more than fantasy? What think you on’t?

Before my God, I might not this believe Without the sensible and true avouch Of mine own eyes.

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.

Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour, With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.