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.

Sings.

How should I your true love know From another one? By his cockle hat and staff, And his sandal shoon.

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.