Ophelia passed by with her apron full of flowers, and she said to me, with a sad look out of her sweet dark eyes—
“Here is rosemary, I pray you, love, remember.”
Truly, I didn’t need her reminder—my soul wuz all rousted up and a-rememberin’.
I remembered the young feller she kep’ company with—yes, indeed! Hamlet, “the expectancy and rose of the fair state.” His shadder follered her clost, and I almost said to him with Horatio, “Good-night, sweet prince.”
But he looked kinder curous—he wuz a little off and acted, and, poor creeter! so wuz she, too; I felt to pity ’em both, and anon she seemed to be singin’ the song that Hamlet ust to sing to her when he wuz a-waitin’ on her:
“Doubt that the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Believe that truth is a liar,
But never doubt that I love.”
She believed still in his constancy. She wuz a good deal out of her head.