Methought thou knew’st me better. To believe
The first ghost who came to thee with tales
Was I! His forked tongue to goad and deceive
Thee to some false step used the truth. What ails
Thy wits, lad, thou dost goggle so? What, still
Dithering? Some brave folly I must own
I longed for as much as dreaded. This will
And won’t, this sighing and looking upon
Even this sacred realm with doubting eyes!
Faugh! Nay, but riddle me then this. What fool
Wishing to be revenged for a brother’s lies
And for a base wife, as tool would eschew
His own wraith form, and send his son instead?