The Death of Ophelia

Ham.

But soft! but soft! aside!--Here comes the king.

The queen, the courtiers: who is that they follow?

And with such maimed rites?

What, the fair Ophelia?

Oph. [Sings.]

How should I your true love know

From another one?

By his cockle bat and' staff

And his sandal shoon.

He is dead and gone, lady,

He is dead and gone;

At his head a grass green turf,

At his heels a stone.

Ham.

I did love you once,

But you should not have believed.

For virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock.

I loved you not.

Oph.

[Sings.]

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 poll:

He is gone, he is gone,

And we cast away moan:

Ham.

Get thee to a nunnery!

Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?

Arrant knaves we are all.

Believe none of us.

What is he whose grief

Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow

Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand

Like wonder-wounded hearers? this is I,

Hamlet the Dane.

[Leaps into the grave.]

Laer.

Hold off the earth awhile,

Till I have caught her once more in mine arms:

Oph.

He is gone, he is gone,

And we cast away moan:

God ha' mercy on his soul