As light doth from a jewel shine,
His eyes shined on me.
I cry your pardon, good people all. But there’s something lost, I think, and ’twill not be found for all my searching.
[Enter Hamlet.
Hamlet. The fair Ophelia. Sweet maid, do you not know me?
Ophelia. No, forsooth; I did never see you before, and yet methinks your eye hath a trick of Prince Hamlet’s in it. But that’s all one, for the Lord Hamlet is dead, and they say his soul is in hell for cozening us poor maids. [Sings]
He is dead that wronged the maid;
He is dead, perdy.
Miranda. I scarce can see for weeping. Would there were
But somewhat I might do to ease her pain.