Constance. Come then, and such cold comfort as I may
I’ll share with you, but sorrow’s cure is not
For us. Your lover groans in hell; my son,
My Arthur, lies within some oubliette,
Far down beneath the gracious day, dog’s food
His only meat, and cries on me, his mother.
Then may I well make friends with stubborn grief,
Since grief alone the heavens have spar’d to me.
Ophelia. Sad lady, I will go with you, weep when you weep, and be your humble pensioner in grief.
Hamlet [advancing] Ophelia, stay a little! What! not know