Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws To cast thee up again. What may this mean, That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel Revisitst thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous,1 and we fools of nature So horridly to shake our disposition With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?
I am thy fathers spirit, Doomd for a certain term to walk the night, And for the day confind to fast in fires,2 Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature Are burnt and purgd away. But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part And each particular hair to stand an end, Like quills upon the fretful porpentine:3 But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O, list!