Hor.
A mote it is to trouble the mind‘s eye.
In the most high and palmy state of Rome,
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,
The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets;
As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood,
Disasters in the sun; and the moist star,
Upon whose influence Neptune‘s empire stands,
Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse.
And even the like precurse of fear‘d events,
As harbingers preceding still the fates
And prologue to the omen coming on,
Have heaven and earth together demonstrated
Unto our climatures and countrymen. - P174
Enter GHOST.
But soft, behold. Lo, where it comes again.
I‘ll cross it though it blast me.
Ghost spreads its arms.
Stay, illusion:
If thou hast any sound or use of voice,
Speak 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 privy to thy country‘s fate,
Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid,
O speak;
Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life
Extorted treasure in the womb of earth,
For which they say your spirits oft walk in death,
Speak of it, stay and speak.
<The cock crows.>
Stop it, Marcellus. - P175
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