And vanish'd from our sight.

'Tis very strange.

As I do live, my honour'd lord, 'tis true;

And we did think it writ down in our duty

To let you know of it.

Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me.

Hold you the watch tonight?

We do, my lord.

Arm'd, say you?

Arm'd, my lord.

From top to toe?

My lord, from head to foot.

Then saw you not his face?

O yes, my lord, he wore his beaver up.

What, look'd he frowningly?

A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.

Pale, or red?

Nay, very pale.

And fix'd his eyes upon you?

Most constantly.

I would I had been there.

It would have much amaz'd you.

Very like, very like. Stay'd it long?

While one with moderate haste might tell

                         a hundred.

Longer, longer.

Not when I saw't.

His beard was grizzled, no?

It was, as I have seen it in his life,

A sable silver'd.

I will watch tonight;

Perchance 'twill walk again.

I warrant you it will.

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.

Our duty to your honour.

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]

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.

Do you doubt that?

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.

No more but so?

Think it no more.

For nature crescent does not grow alone

In thews and bulk; but as this temple waxes,

The inward service of the mind and soul

Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now,

And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch

The virtue of his will; but you must fear,

His greatness weigh'd, his will is not his own;

For he himself is subject to his birth:

He may not, as unvalu'd persons do,

Carve for himself; for on his choice depends

The sanctity and health of this whole state;

And therefore must his choice be circumscrib'd

Unto the voice and yielding of that body

Whereof he is the head. Then if he says

                         he loves you,

It fits your wisdom so far to believe it

As he in his particular act and place

May give his saying deed; which is no further

Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal.

Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain

If with too credent ear you list his songs,

Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open

To his unmaster'd importunity.

Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister;

And keep you in the rear of your affection,

Out of the shot and danger of desire.

The chariest maid is prodigal enough

If she unmask her beauty to the moon.

Virtue itself 'scapes not calumnious strokes: