Ophelia
White his shroud as the mountain snow—
Sings.
Queen
Alas, look here, my lord.
Ophelia
Larded with sweet flowers;
Which bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers.
Sings.
King
How do you, pretty lady?
Ophelia
Well, God ’ild 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.
Ophelia
To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s day,
All in the morning betime,
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.
Sings.