Lor. It is your love that shapes this apprehension.
Hor. Do you not see him plainly, lords?
Now he would kiss my cheek: O my pale friend,
Wert thou anything but a ghost, I could love thee.
See, he points at his own hearse—mark all—
As if he did rejoice at funeral.
And. Revenge, give tongue[313] freedom to paint her part,
To thank Horatio, and commend his heart.
Revenge. No, you’ll blab secrets then?
And. By Charon’s boat, I will not.