Ghost: I am thy father's spirit, Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night, And for the day confined to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature Are burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison-house,

        Hamlet: O God!

        Ghost: Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.

        Hamlet: Murder!

        Ghost: Murder most foul, as in the best it is; But this most foul, strange and unnatural.

        Hamlet: Haste me to know't, that I, with wings as swift As meditation or the thoughts of love, May sweep to my revenge.

        Ghost: I find thee apt; And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed That roots itself in ease on Lethe wharf, Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear: 'Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard, A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of Denmark

        Hamlet: O my prophetic soul! My uncle!