Hor. What art thou, that usurp'st this time of night,[31]
Together with that fair and warlike form
In which the majesty of buried Denmark
Did sometimes march? by heaven I charge thee, speak![32]
Mar. It is offended.
Ber. See, it stalks away! 50
Hor. Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee, speak![33]
[Exit Ghost.
Mar. 'Tis gone, and will not answer.
Ber. How now, Horatio! you tremble and look pale:
Is not this something more than fantasy?
What think you on't?[34] 55
Hor. Before my God, I might not this believe[35]
Without the sensible and true avouch[36]
Of mine own eyes.
Mar. Is it not like the king?
Hor. As thou art to thyself:
Such was the very armour he had on[37] 60
When he the ambitious Norway combated;[38]
So frown'd he once, when, in an angry parle,
He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice.[39]
'Tis strange.[40]