Queen. (L.C.) 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.
Enter the KING (L.H.)
Queen. Nay, but, Ophelia,——
Oph.　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　 Pray you, mark.
[Sings.]
White his shroud as the mountain-snow,
Larded all with sweet flowers;[11]
Which bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers.
King. How do you, pretty lady?