“Ophelia dead!”
“Not so, my lord; she 's married.”
“I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student.”
“As I do live, my honored lord, 't is true.”
“Married, say you?”
“Married to him that sent me hither—a gentleman of winning ways and a most choice conceit, the scion of a noble house here in Verona—one Romeo.”
The oddest little expression flitted over Juliet's face. There was never woman yet, even on her bridal day, could forgive a jilted lover marrying.
“Ophelia wed!” murmured the bridegroom.
“Do you know the lady, dear?”
“Excellent well,” replied Hamlet, turning to Juliet; “a most estimable young person, the daughter of my father's chamberlain. She is rather given to singing ballads of an elegiac nature,” added the prince, reflectingly, “but our madcap Romeo will cure her of that. Methinks I see them now”—