Queen. Let her come in.
[Exit Gentleman.]
[Aside] 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.
Enter Ophelia distracted.
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.
O, ho!
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 not go
With true-love showers.
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