Oph.
I shall obey, my lord.

[Exeunt.]



Scene IV. The platform.

[Enter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus.]

Ham.
The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.

Hor.
It is a nipping and an eager air.

Ham.
What hour now?

Hor.
I think it lacks of twelve.

Mar.
No, it is struck.

Hor.
Indeed? I heard it not: then draws near the season
Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.