Queen. Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?
Oph. Say you? Nay, pray You mark.
(Sings) He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.
O, ho!
Queen. Nay, but Ophelia-
Oph. Pray you mark.
(Sings) White his shroud as the mountain snow-
Enter King.
Queen. Alas, look here, my lord!
Oph. (Sings)
Larded all with sweet flowers;
Which bewept to the grave did not go
With true-love showers.
King. How do you, pretty lady?
Oph. Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker's
daughter.
Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God
be at
your table!
King. Conceit upon her father.
Oph. Pray let's have no words of this; but when they ask, you
what
it means, say you this:
(Sings) To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,
All in the morning bedtime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose and donn'd his clo'es
And dupp'd the chamber door,
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.
King. Pretty Ophelia!
Oph. Indeed, la, without an oath, I'll make an end on't!
[Sings] By Gis and by Saint Charity,
Alack, and fie for shame!
Young men will do't if they come to't
By Cock, they are to blame.
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