Queen
Let her come in.
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.
Exit Horatio .
Ophelia
Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?
Queen
How now, Ophelia!
Ophelia
How should I your true love know
From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,
And his sandal shoon.
Sings.
Queen
Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?
Ophelia
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.
Sings.
Queen
Nay, but, Ophelia—