Fran. You come most carefully upon your houre.

OF

your

selfe.

Bar. 'Tis now strook twelve, get thee to bed Francisco. Fran. For this releefe much thankes: 'Tis bitter cold, And I am sicke at heart.

Barn. Have you had quiet Guard?

Fran.

Not a Mouse stirring.

Barn. Well, goodnight. If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, the Rivals of my Watch, bid them make hast.

Enter Horatio and Marcellus.

Fran. I thinke I heare them.

Stand: who's there?

And Leige-men to the Dane.

Hor. Friends to this ground.
Mar.

Fran. Give you good night.

Mar. O farwel honest Soldier, who hath reliev'd you?
Fra. Barnardo ha's my place: give you goodnight.

Exit Fran.

Mar.

Holla Bernardo.

Bar. Say, what is Horatio there?

Hor.

A peece of him.

Bar. Welcome Horatio, welcome good Marcellus.
Mar. What, ha's this thing appear'd againe to night.
Bar. I have seene nothing.

Mar. Horatio saies, 'tis but our Fantasie,

And will not let beleefe take hold of him

Touching this dreaded sight, twice seene of us,

Therefore I have intreated him along

With us, to watch the minutes of this Night,
That if againe this Apparition come,

He may approve our eyes, and speake to it.
Hor. Tush, tush, 'twill not appeare.
Bar.

Sit downe a-while,

And let us once againe assaile your eares,
That are so fortified against our story,

What we two Nights have seene.

Hor.

Well, sit we downe,

And let us heare Barnardo speake of this.

Barn. Last night of all,

When yond same Starre that's Westward from the Pole

Had made his course t'illume that part of Heaven

Where now it burnes, Marcellus and my selfe,

The Bell then beating one.

Mar. Peace, breake thee of:

Enter the Ghost.

Looke where it comes againe.

Barn. In the same figure, like the King that's dead.
Mar. Thou art a Scholler; speake to it Horatio.
Barn. Lookes it not like the King? Marke it Horatio.
Hora. Most like: It harrowes me with fear & wonder.
Barn. It would be spoke too.

Mar.

Question it Horatio.

Hor. What art thou that usurp'st this time of night,

Together with that Faire and Warlike forme

In which the Majesty of buried Denmarke

Did sometimes march: By Heaven I charge thee speake.
Mar. It is offended.

Hor. Stay speake; speake: I Charge thee, speake.

Mar. 'Tis gone, and will not answer.

Exit the Ghost.

Barn. How now Horatio? You tremble & look pale:

Is not this something more then Fantasie?

What thinke you on't?

Hor. Before my God, I might not this beleeve

Without the sensible and true avouch

Of mine owne eyes,

Mar.

It is not like the King?

Hor. As thou art to thy selfe,

Such was the very Armour he had on,
When th'Ambitious Norwey combatted:
So frown'd he once, when in an angry parle
He smot the sledded Pollax on the Ice.

'Tis strange.

Mar. Thus twice before, and just at this dead houre, With Martiall stalke, hath he gone by our Watch.

Hor. In what particular thought to work, I know not; But in the grosse and scope of my Opinion,

This boades some strange erruption to our State.

Mar. Good now sit downe, & tell me he that knowes
Why this same strict and most observant Watch,

So nightly toyles the subject of the Land,
And why such dayly Cast of Brazon Cannon
And Forraigne Mart for Implements of warre:

Why such impresse of Ship-wrights, whose sore Taske
Do's not divide the Sunday from the weeke,
What might be toward, that this sweaty hast
Doth make the Night joyn-Labourer with the day: