O rose of May!
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!
O heavens! is't possible a young maid's wits
Should be as mortal as an old man's life?
Nature is fine in love, and where 'tis fine,
It sends some precious instance of itself
After the thing it loves.
Oph. (sings)
They bore him barefac'd on the bier
(Hey non nony, nony, hey nony)
And in his grave rain'd many a tear.
Fare you well, my dove!
Laer. Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge,
It could not move thus.
Oph. You must sing 'A-down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.'
O,
how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole
his
master's daughter.
Laer. This nothing's more than matter.
Oph. There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love,
remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
Laer. A document in madness! Thoughts and remembrance fitted.
Oph. There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for
you,
and here's some for me. We may call it herb of grace o'
Sundays.
O, you must wear your rue with a difference! There's a daisy.
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