Laer.
Let her come in. How now? what noise is that?
O heat dry up my brains, tears seven times salt
Burn on the sense and vertue 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?
^{e note}


Nature is fine in love, and where 'tis fine,
It sends some precious instance of it self
After the thing it loves.
Oph.
  They bore him bare-fac'd on the bier,
  And on his grave rains many a tear,
  Fare you well, my dove.

Laer.

Hadst 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. O how the wheel 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; there's rue for you, and here's some for me. We may call it herb of grace a Sundays: you may wear your rue with a difference. There's a dasie; I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father dy'd: they say, he made a good end;