Ask Shakespeare

OPHELIA.
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.

OPHELIA.
Pray you, let’s have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, say
you this:
[[Sings.] ]
   Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day,
     All in the morning betime,
   And I a maid at your window,
     To be your Valentine.

   Then up he rose and donn’d his clothes,
     And dupp’d the chamber door,
   Let in the maid, that out a maid
     Never departed more.

KING.
Pretty Ophelia!

OPHELIA.
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.

   Quoth she, before you tumbled me,
     You promis’d me to wed.
   So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun,
     An thou hadst not come to my bed.

KING.
How long hath she been thus?

OPHELIA.
I hope all will be well. We must be patient. But I cannot choose but weep, to
think they would lay him i’ th’ cold ground. My brother shall know of it. And
so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies; good
night, sweet ladies; good night, good night.

[[Exit.] ]

KING.
Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.

[[ExitHoratio.] ]

KING.
Let’s further think of this,
Weigh what convenience both of time and means
May fit us to our shape. If this should fail,
And that our drift look through our bad performance.
‘Twere better not assay’d. Therefore this project
Should have a back or second, that might hold
If this did blast in proof. Soft, let me see.
We’ll make a solemn wager on your cunnings,—
I ha’t! When in your motion you are hot and dry,
As make your bouts more violent to that end,
And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepar’d him
A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping,
If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck,
Our purpose may hold there.

Enter Queen. .

How now, sweet Queen?

QUEEN.
One woe doth tread upon another’s heel,
So fast they follow. Your sister’s drown’d, Laertes.

LAERTES.
Drown’d! O, where?

QUEEN.
There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoary leaves in the glassy stream.
There with fantastic garlands did she make
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them.
There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds
Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke,
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide,
And mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up,
Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element. But long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.

LAERTES.
Alas, then she is drown’d?

QUEEN.
Drown’d, drown’d.

LAERTES.
Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia,
And therefore I forbid my tears. But yet
It is our trick; nature her custom holds,
Let shame say what it will. When these are gone,
The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord,
I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze,
But that this folly douts it.

[[Exit.] ]

Enter Queen, Horatio. and a Gentleman. .

QUEEN.
I will not speak with her.

GENTLEMAN.
She is importunate, indeed distract.
Her mood will needs be pitied.

QUEEN.
What would she have?

GENTLEMAN.
She speaks much of her father; says she hears
There’s tricks i’ th’ world, and hems, and beats her heart,
Spurns enviously at straws, speaks things in doubt,
That carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing,
Yet the unshaped use of it doth move
The hearers to collection; they aim at it,
And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts,
Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them,
Indeed would make one think there might be thought,
Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.
‘Twere good she were spoken with, for she may strew
Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.

QUEEN.
Let her come in.

[[ExitGentleman.] ]

To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is,
Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss.
So full of artless jealousy is guilt,
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

Enter Ophelia. .

OPHELIA.
Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark?

QUEEN.
How now, Ophelia?

OPHELIA.
[[Sings.] ]
   How should I your true love know
     From another one?
   By his cockle hat and staff
     And his sandal shoon.

QUEEN.
Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?

OPHELIA.
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.

QUEEN.
Nay, but Ophelia—

OPHELIA.
Pray you mark.
[[Sings.] ]
   White his shroud as the mountain snow.

Enter King. .

QUEEN.
Alas, look here, my lord!

OPHELIA.
[[Sings.] ]
     Larded all with sweet flowers;
   Which bewept to the grave did not go
     With true-love showers.

KING.
How do you, pretty lady?

OPHELIA.
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.