POLONIUS.
Farewell.
[Exit Reynaldo.]
Enter Ophelia.
How now, Ophelia, what’s the matter?
OPHELIA.
Alas, my lord, I have been so affrighted.
POLONIUS.
With what, in the name of God?
OPHELIA.
My lord, as I was sewing in my chamber,
Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac’d,
No hat upon his head, his stockings foul’d,
Ungart’red, and down-gyved to his ankle,
Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other,
And with a look so piteous in purport
As if he had been loosed out of hell
To speak of horrors, he comes before me.
POLONIUS.
Mad for thy love?
OPHELIA.
My lord, I do not know, but truly I do fear it.
POLONIUS.
What said he?