Hide, hide that woeful face. Sleep, sleep

Quiet ’i the grave! Dagonet meant it not.

Ha! ha! I’ll laugh and be merry. ’Tis but my wits.

I’ll think on Vivien.—Nay, nay, not that face!

I slew thee not. Away! away!

’Tis but a fancy, but it lifts the hair

In frosty bristles, makes the eyeballs stare,

And turns me to a horror. Away! Away!

Re-enter Maid.

What play is now, Sir Fool, that thy wit playeth?