Reynol. Good my Lord.
Polon. Obserue his inclination in your selfe.[3]
Reynol. I shall my Lord.
Polon. And let him[4] plye his Musicke.
Reynol. Well, my Lord. Exit.
Enter Ophelia.
Polon. Farewell: How now Ophelia, what's the matter?
Ophe. Alas my Lord, I haue beene so affrighted.
[Sidenote: O my Lord, my Lord,]
Polon. With what, in the name of Heauen?
[Sidenote: i'th name of God?]
Ophe. My Lord, as I was sowing in my Chamber, [Sidenote: closset,]
Lord Hamlet with his doublet all vnbrac'd,[5]
No hat vpon his head, his stockings foul'd,
Vngartred, and downe giued[6] to his Anckle,
Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other,
And with a looke so pitious in purport,
As if he had been loosed out of hell,