“Who shall stay you?” asked the King mildly.
“My will, not all the world!” retorted Laertes roughly. “And for my means, I’ll husband them so well, they shall go far with little.”
The King was just explaining that he was in no sense guilty of Polonius’s death, when there was a stir at the door, and the next moment Ophelia entered. At the sight of the beautiful young maiden, in her simple white robe, her long yellow locks floating free on her shoulders, her sweet blue eyes opened wide in vacant gaze, a sudden check came to the young man’s violence.
“O rose of May! Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!” he murmured, with tenderest pity. “Oh heavens! is it possible a young maid’s wits should be as mortal as an old man’s life?”
Ophelia carried flowers in her hand, and she came in singing and talking to herself.
“They bore him barefaced on the bier; Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny; And in his grave rain’d many a tear:—
“Fare you well, my dove.”
“Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, it could not move thus,” said Laertes.
Ophelia now began to distribute the flowers she held in her hand. First she gave some to her brother.
“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.”