Qu. How now Ophelia?
Ophe. How should I your true loue know from another one?
By his Cockle hat and staffe, and his Sandal shoone
Qu. Alas sweet Lady: what imports this Song?
Ophe. Say you? Nay pray you marke.
He is dead and gone Lady, he is dead and gone,
At his head a grasse-greene Turfe, at his heeles a stone.
Enter King.
Qu. Nay but Ophelia
Ophe. Pray you marke.
White his Shrow'd as the Mountaine Snow
Qu. Alas, looke heere my Lord
Ophe. Larded with sweet Flowers:
Which bewept to the graue did not go,
With true-loue showres
King. How do ye, pretty Lady?
Ophe. Well, God dil'd you. They say the Owle was
a Bakers daughter. Lord, wee know what we are, but
know not what we may be. God be at your Table
King. Conceit vpon her Father
Ophe. Pray you let's haue no words of this: but when
they aske you what it meanes, say you this:
To morrow is S[aint]. Valentines day, all in the morning betime,
And I a Maid at your Window, to be your Valentine.
Then vp he rose, & don'd his clothes, & dupt the chamber dore,
Let in the Maid, that out a Maid, neuer departed more
King. Pretty Ophelia