Qu. 'Twere good she were spoken with,
For she may strew dangerous coniectures
In ill breeding minds. Let her come in.
To my sicke soule (as sinnes true Nature is)
Each toy seemes Prologue, to some great amisse,
So full of Artlesse iealousie is guilt,
It spill's it selfe, in fearing to be spilt.
Enter Ophelia distracted.
Ophe. Where is the beauteous Maiesty of Denmark
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