Queen.
I will not speak to her.

Horatio.
She'll breed a riot;
You'd better have her in to keep her quiet.

Queen.
Well, send her up. (Exit Hor.) I think the devil's in it,
That I can never be alone a minute. Enter Horatio with Ophelia.

Ophelia (sings.)
Three children sliding on the ice,
  All on a summer's day;
The ice it broke—they all fell in—
  The rest they ran away.

Queen.
Sweet lady, what's the meaning of this song?

Ophelia.
I'll sing the rest—for 'tis not very long.

(Sings.)
Now had these children staid at home,
  And slid upon dry ground;
They broken necks had had, perchance,
  But never had been drown'd. Enter King.

King.
How is't, Ophelia?

Ophelia.
Where's the use of sorrow?
For, ah! we're here to-day and gone to-morrow!

SONG.—Ophelia. (Tune—“How happy could I be with either.”)
'Tis the fashion for lads to court lasses,
  But I know a case quite contrary:
Peggy Tomkins (c)8Q0018 lov'd Johnny the butler,
  And she whistled for John down the area.
Ri tol, &c.

King.
Pretty Ophelia.

Ophelia.
Aye, 'tis true, depend on't;
And so, without an oath, I'll make an end on't.

(Sings.)
Says John, “go to the back-kitchen-window,
  And quickly I'll come and unbar it.”—
But, to shorten a very long story,
  Peggy staid all night long in John's garret.
Ri tol, &c.

King.
How long hath she been thus?

Queen.
I cannot tell.

Ophelia.
We must be patient; all may yet be well.
Yet I must weep—to lay him in the dirt is
A dirty trick—I'll tell it to Laertes.
I thank you—so 'tis best—you counsel right—
My coach—three thirty-five—(d)8Q0019 good night, good night. [Exit Ophelia.

King.
Follow her close: Horatio, you be at her;
See you look sharp. (Exit Hor.) Hollo, there! what's the matter? [Noise within. Enter Marcellus.

Marcellus.
My lord, my lord, Laertes heads a mob,
And comes to knock about your royal nob.

The rabble swear your majesty shall swing;
And loudly cry, “Laertes shall be king.” [Exit Marcellus [Noise without. Enter Laertes.

Laertes.
You blackguard! (To the King)

Queen.
Fie! Laertes.

Laertes.
I had rather
You'd mind your business. (To King) Give me back my father.

King.
Hold him fast, Gertrude, I'll get out o' th' way;
He's twice as big as I am. (Going.)

Laertes.
Stop, I say!
Who kill'd my father?

King.
How should I know?

Laertes.
Nonsense.

Queen.
He did not kill him.

King.
No, upon my conscience.

I'll prove my innocence beyond all doubt.

Laertes.
None of your blarney,—(e)8Q0020 but I'll soon find out.
I'll twig ye all for't—I'll not stand your humming. Enter Horatio.

Horatio.
Here's Miss Ophelia, Sir.

King.
Pray let her come in. Enter Ophelia, fantastically dressed with straws and flowers; her clothes splashed with mud and dirt.

Laertes.
My pretty maid—This is too much to bear!
By Gemini she's mad as a March hare!

Ophelia. (sings.)
Giles Scroggins courted Molly Brown,
Ri tol, &c.
The fairest wench in all the town,
Tiddy, tiddy, &c.

Laertes.
To see her thus—O, 'tis a doleful pity!

Ophelia.
What must be, must—but hush!—I'll end my ditty.

(Sings.)
A captain bold in Halifax,
  Who liv'd in country quarters,
Seduc'd a maid who hang'd herself,
  One morning in her garters.
Stop—stop—I've brought some fruit:—for you, sweet Queen,
The finest cabbage that was ever seen;
For you a bunch of carrots; and for you
A turnip;—and I'll eat a turnip too.
To bring a rope of onions, (f)8Q0021 too, I tried,
But father ate them all before he died.
Well, there's an end of him!—he's gone!—aye true—
Come, one song more, and then—then I'll go too.

SONG.—Ophelia.
And will he not come again?
And will he not come again?
  He is knock'd o' the head,
  And than mutton more dead,
And never will come again.
His beard was as white as my shift,
As white as my shift was his pole:
  He is gone—let's be jolly,
  For grieving's a folly,
And never will save his soul. [Exeunt Ophelia and Queen.

King.
Laertes, I lament your situation:
But, come, we'll have a private conversation,
And I'll acquaint who 'twas kill'd your father.—
Or, if you like not this plan, and had rather
Submit our diff'rence to an arbitration,
You may depend on ample reparation.

Laertes.
His shabby fun'ral too—O sad reproach!
Not e'en attended by a mourning coach;
No mutes, no pall-bearers, and (what's still worse)
Two wretched, knock'd-up hacks, to draw his hearse.
I'll have revenge.

King.
You shall.—Tip us your daddle:
But on the right horse see you place the saddle. [Exeunt.

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