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Hamlet:
Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me.
Hold you the watch tonight?
Marcellus and Barnardo:
We do, my lord.
Hamlet:
Arm’d, say you?
Both:
Arm’d, my lord.
Hamlet:
From top to toe?
Both:
My lord, from head to foot.
Hamlet:
Then saw you not his face?
Horatio:
O yes, my lord, he wore his beaver up.
Hamlet:
What, look’d he frowningly?
Horatio:
A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.
Hamlet:
Pale, or red?
Horatio:
Nay, very pale.
Hamlet:
And fix’d his eyes upon you?
Horatio:
Most constantly.
Hamlet:
I would I had been there.
Horatio:
It would have much amaz’d you.
Hamlet:
Very like, very like. Stay’d it long?
Horatio:
While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.
Marcellus and Barnardo:
Longer, longer.
Horatio:
Not when I saw’t.
Hamlet:
His beard was grizzled, no?
Horatio:
It was, as I have seen it in his life,
A sable silver’d.
Hamlet:
I will watch tonight;
Perchance ’twill walk again.
Horatio:
I warrant you it will.
Hamlet:
If it assume my noble father’s person,
I’ll speak to it, though hell itself should gape
And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all,
If you have hitherto conceal’d this sight,
Let it be tenable in your silence still;
And whatsoever else shall hap tonight,
Give it an understanding, but no tongue.
I will requite your loves. So, fare ye well.
Upon the platform ’twixt eleven and twelve,
I’ll visit you.
All:
Our duty to your honour.
Hamlet:
Your loves, as mine to you: farewell.
(Exeunt Horatio, Marcellus and Barnardo.)
My father’s spirit in arms! All is not well;
I doubt some foul play: would the night were come!
Till then sit still, my soul: foul deeds will rise,
Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.
(Exit.)
Scene Three. A room in Polonius’s house.
Enter Laertes and Ophelia.
Laertes:
My necessaries are embark’d. Farewell.
And, sister, as the winds give benefit
And convoy is assistant, do not sleep,
But let me hear from you.
Ophelia:
Do you doubt that?
Laertes:
For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour,
Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood;
A violet in the youth of primy nature,
Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting;
The perfume and suppliance of a minute;
No more.
Ophelia:
No more but so?