O heat, dry up my brains! tears, seven times salt,
Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye!
By heav'n, thy madness shall be paid with weight,
'Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May!
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!
O heav'ns, is't possible a young maid's wits
Should be as mortal as an old man's life?
^{2 note}

It sends some precious instance of itself
After the thing it loves.
Oph.
They bore him bare-fac'd on the bier,
And on his Grave remains many a tear;
Fare you well, my dove!

Laer.
Had'st thou thy wits, and didst perswade Revenge,
It could not move thus.

Oph.

You must sing, down a-down, and you call him a-down-a. ^{3 note}O how the weal becomes it! it is the false steward that stole his master's daughter.

Laer.

This nothing's more than matter.

Oph.

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray, love, remember; and there's pancies, that's for thoughts.

Laer.

A document in madness, thoughts and remembrance fitted.

Oph.

There's fennel for you, and columbines; ^{4 note}there's rue for you, and here's some for me. We may call it herb of grace o' Sundays: you may wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisie; I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father dy'd: they say, he made a good end;

Laer.
Thought, and affliction, passion, hell itself,
She turns to favour, and to prettiness.

Oph.

And will he not come again?
And will he not come again?
No, no, he is dead, go to thy death-bed,
He never will come again.
His beard was as white as snow,
All flaxen was his pole:
He is gone, he is gone, and we cast away mone,
Gramercy on his soul!
And of all christian souls! God b' w' ye. [Exit Ophelia.

Laer.
Do you see this, you Gods!

King.
Laertes, I must commune with your grief,
Or you deny me right: go but a-part,
Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will,
And they shall hear and judge 'twixt you and me;
If by direct or by collateral hand
They find us touch'd, we will our Kingdom give,
Our Crown, our life, and all that we call ours,
To you in satisfaction. But if not,
Be you content to lend your patience to us,
And we shall jointly labour with your soul,
To give it due content.

Laer.
Let this be so.
His means of death, his obscure funeral,
No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o'er his bones,
No noble rite, nor formal ostentation,
Cry to be heard, as 'twere from heav'n to earth,
That I must call't in question.

King.
So you shall:
^{5 note}