THE TRAGEDIE OF HAMLET, Prince of Denmarke.

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  10. Francisco, a soldier: 8/9
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  13. Father's Ghost, Ghost of Hamlet's Father: 0/0
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  16. Horatio, friend to Hamlet: 15/83
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Page 152

THE TRAGEDIE OF HAMLET, Prince of Denmarke.

Actus Primus. Scœna Prima.

[Act 1, Scene 1]

Enter Barnardo and Francisco two Centinels.

WHo's there?

Nay answer me: Stand & vnfold your selfe.

Long liue the King.



You come most carefully vpon your houre.

'Tis now strook twelue, get thee to bed Francisco.

For this releese much thankes: 'Tis bitter cold,
And I am sicke at heart.

Haue you had quiet Guard?

Not a Mouse stirring.

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

Enter Horatio and Marcellus.

I thinke I heare them. Stand: who's there?

Friends to this ground.

And Leige‑men to the Dane.

Giue you good night.

O farwel honest Soldier, who hath relieu'd you?

Barnardo ha's my place: giue you goodnight.

Exit Fran.

Holla Barnardo.

Say, what is Horatio there?

A peece of him.

Welcome Horatio, welcome good Marcellus.

What, ha's this thing appear'd againe to night.

I haue seene nothing.

Horatio saies,'tis but our Fantasie,
And will not let beleefe take hold of him
Touching this dreaded sight, twice seene of vs,
Therefore I haue intreated him along
With vs, to watch the minutes of this Night,
That if againe this Apparition come,
He may approue our eyes, and speake to it.

Tush, tush,'twill not appeare.

Sit downe a‑while,
And let vs once againe assaile your eares,
That are so fortified against our story,
What we two Nights haue seene.

Well, sit, we downe,
And let vs heare Barnardo speake of this.

Last night of all,
When yond same Starre that's Westward from the Pole
Had made his course t'illume that part of Heauen
Where now it burnes, Marcellus and my selfe,
The Bell then beating one.

Peace, breake thee of:
Enter the Ghost. Looke where it comes againe.

In the same figure, like the King that's dead.

Thou art a Scholler; speake to it Horatio.

Lookes it not likA hole in the page partially obscures this k.e the King? Marke it Horatio.

Most like: It harrowes me with fear & wonder

It would be spoke too.

Question it Horatio.

What art thou that vsurp'st this time of night,
Together with that Faire and Warlike forme
In which the Maiesty of buried Denmarke
Did sometimes march: By Heauen I charge thee Speake.

It is offended.

See, it stalkes away.

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

Exit the Ghost.

'Tis gone, and will not answer.

How now Horatio? You tremble & look pale:
Is not this something more then Fantasie?
What thinke you on't?

Before my God, I might not this beleeue
Without the sensible and true auouch
Of mine owne eyes.

Is it not like the King?

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.

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

In what particular thought to work, l know not:
But in the grosse and scope of my Opinion,
This boades some strange erruption to our State.

Good now sit down, & tell me he that knowes
Why this same strict and most obseruant Watch,
So nightly toyles the subiect of the Land,
And why such dayly Caft Cast of Brazon Cannon
And Forraigne Mart for Implements of warre:
Why such impresse of Ship‑wrights, whose sore Taske
Do's not diuide the Sunday from the weeke,
What might be toward, that this sweaty hast
Doth make the Night ioynt‑Labourer with the day:
Who is't that can informe me?

That can I,

Page 153
At least the whisper goes so: Our last King,
Whose Image euen but now appear'd to vs,
Was (as you know) by Fortinbras of Norway,
(Thereto prick'd on by a most emulate Pride)
Dar'd to the Combate. In which, our Valiant Hamlet,
(For so this side of our knowne world esteem'd him)
Did slay this Fortinbras: who by a Seal'd Compact,
Well ratified by Law, and Heraldrie,
Did forfeite (with his life) all those his Lands
Which he stood seiz'd on, to the Conqueror;
Against the which, a Moity competent
Was gaged by our King: which had return'd
To the Inheritance of Fortinbras,
Had he bin Vanquisher, as by the same Cou'nant
And carriage of the Article designe,
His fell to Hamlet. Now sir, young Fortinbras,
Of vnimproued Mettle, hot and full,
Hath in the skirts of Norway, heere and there,
Shark'd vp a List of Landlesse Resolutes,
For Foode and Diet, to some Enterprize
That hath a stomacke m't: which is no other
(And it doth well appeare vnto our State)
But to recouer of vs by strong hand
And termes Compulsatiue, those foresaid Lands
So by his Father lost: and this (I take it)
Is the maine Motiue os our Preparations,
The Sourse of this our Watch, and the cheefe head
Of this post‑hast, and Romage in the Land.
Enter Ghost againe. But soft, behold: Loe, where it comes againe:
Ile crosse it, though it blast me. stay Illusion:
If thou hast any sound, or vse of Voyce,
Speake to me. If there be any good thing to be done,
That may to thee do ease, and grace to me; speak to me.
If thou art priuy to thy Countries Fate
(Which happily foreknowing may auoyd) Oh speake.
Or, if thou hast vp‑hoorded in thy life
Extorted Treasure in the wombe of Earth,
(For which, they say, you Spirits oft walke in death)
Speake of it. Stay, and speake. Stop it Marcellus.

Shall I strike at ir it with my Partizan?

Do, if it will not stand.

'Tis heere.

'Tis heere.

'Tis gone.
Exit Ghost. We do it wrong, being so Maiesticall
To offer it the shew of Violence,
For it is as the Ayre, invulnerable,
And our vaine blowes, malicious Mockery.

It was about to speake, when the Cocke crew.

And then it started, like a guilty thing
Vpon a fearfull Summons. I haue heard,
The Cocke that is the Trumpet to the day,
Doth with his lofty and shrill‑sounding Throate
Awake the God of Day: and at his warning,
Whether in Sea, or Fire, in Earth, or Ayre,
Th'extrauagant, and erring Spirit, hyes
To his Confine. And of the truth heerein,
This prescnt Obiect made probation.

It faded on the crowing of the Cocke.
Some sayes, that euer 'gainst that Season comes
Wherein our Sauiours Birth is celebrated,
The Bird of Dawning singeth all night long:
And then (they say) no Spirit can walke abroad,
The nights are wholsome, then no Planets strike,
No Faiery talkes, nor Witch hath power to Charme:
So hallow'd, and so gracious is the time.

So haue I heard, and do in part beleeue it.
But looke, the Morne in Russet mantle clad,
Walkes o're the dew of yon high Easterne Hill,
Breake we our Watch vp, and by my aduice
Let vs impart what we haue seene to night
Vnto yong Hamlet. For vpon my life,
This Spirit dumbe to vs, will speake to him:
Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it,
As needfull in our Loues, fitting our Duty?

Let do't I pray, and I this morning know
Where we shall finde him most conueniently.