Ferdinand. Her woe, me thinketh, is long past its cure.
But look! here comes a sadder wight than she.
[Enter Constance, with hair unbound.
Constance [to Ophelia] Thy wits are all disorder’d as mine own:
Then might we play at grief as who should know
The worst, but mine’s the heavier. You do mourn
A lover faithless, I a son whose face,
So sweet and gracious, made the world for me;
Perpetual solace to my widowhood.
Ophelia. I do not know you, but you weep and so do I, and surely that doth make us sisters in grief, and so because of that I’ll follow you whither you list, and you will let me.