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indeed distract:

       Her mood will needs be pitied.

       Queen.

       What would she have?

       Gent.

       She speaks much of her father; says she hears

       There’s tricks i’ the world, and hems, and beats her heart;

       Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt,

       That carry but half sense: her speech is nothing,

       Yet the unshaped use of it doth move

       The hearers to collection; they aim at it,

       And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts;

       Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them,

       Indeed would make one think there might be thought,

       Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.

       ‘Twere good she were spoken with; for she may strew

       Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.

       Queen.

       Let her come in.

       [Exit Horatio.]

       To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is,

       Each toy seems Prologue to some great amiss:

       So full of artless jealousy is guilt,

       It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

       [Re-enter Horatio with Ophelia.]

       Oph.

       Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?

       Queen.

       How now, Ophelia?

       Oph. [Sings.]

       How should I your true love know

       From another one?

       By his cockle bat and’ staff

       And his sandal shoon.

       Queen.

       Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?

       Oph.

       Say you? nay, pray you, mark.

       [Sings.]

       He is dead and gone, lady,

       He is dead and gone;

       At his head a grass green turf,

       At his heels a stone.

       Queen.

       Nay, but Ophelia—

       Oph.

       Pray you, mark.

       [Sings.]

       White his shroud as the mountain snow,

       [Enter King.]

       Queen.

       Alas, look here, my lord!

       Oph.

       [Sings.]

       Larded all with sweet flowers;

       Which bewept to the grave did go

       With true-love showers.

       King.

       How do you, pretty lady?

       Oph.

       Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker’s daughter.

       Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at

       your table!

       King.

       Conceit upon her father.

       Oph.

       Pray you, let’s have no words of this; but when they ask you what

       it means, say you this:

       [Sings.]

       Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day

       All in the morning bedtime,

       And I a maid at your window,

       To be your Valentine.

       Then up he rose and donn’d his clothes,

       And dupp’d the chamber door,

       Let in the maid, that out a maid

       Never departed more.

       King.

       Pretty Ophelia!

       Oph.

       Indeed, la, without an oath, I’ll make an end on’t:

       [Sings.]

       By Gis and by Saint Charity,

       Alack, and fie for shame!

       Young men will do’t if they come to’t;

       By cock, they are to blame.

       Quoth she, before you tumbled me,

       You promis’d me to wed.

       So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun,

       An thou hadst not come to my bed.

       King.

       How long hath she been thus?

       Oph. I hope all will be well. We must be patient: but I cannot choose but weep, to think they would lay him i’ the cold ground. My brother shall know of it: and so I thank you for your good counsel.—Come, my coach!—Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night.

       [Exit.]

       King.

       Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.

       [Exit Horatio.]

       O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs

       All from her father’s death. O Gertrude, Gertrude,

       When sorrows come, they come not single spies,

       But in battalions! First, her father slain:

       Next, your son gone; and he most violent author

       Of his own just remove: the people muddied,

       Thick and and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers

       For good Polonius’ death; and we have done but greenly

       In hugger-mugger to inter him: poor Ophelia

       Divided from herself and her fair judgment,

       Without the which we are pictures or mere beasts:

       Last, and as much containing as all these,

       Her brother is in secret come from France;

       Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds,

       And wants not buzzers to infect his ear

       With pestilent speeches of his father’s death;

       Wherein necessity, of matter beggar’d,

       Will nothing stick our person to arraign

       In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this,

       Like to a murdering piece, in many places

       Give, me superfluous death.

       [A noise within.]

       Queen.

       Alack, what noise is this?

       King.

       Where are my Switzers? let them guard the door.

       [Enter a Gentleman.]

       What is the matter?

       Gent.

       Save yourself, my lord:

       The ocean, overpeering of his list,

       Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste

       Than young Laertes, in a riotous head,

       O’erbears your offices. The rabble call him lord;

       And, as the world were now but to begin,

       Antiquity forgot, custom

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