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!

Mar.
It is offended.

Ber.
See, it stalks away!

Hor.
Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee speak!

[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?

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

Mar.