I will not speak with her.
Your majesty, perhaps her mood needs to be pitied? She goes
on about her father and how the world's corrupt; she beats
her breast and speaks doubts that carry half sense. Her use
of speech is unshaped, yet it moves some. Others yawn, and
botch an idea to fit their own. Her gestures make one think
there're whole thoughts beneath it all. Nothing's certain
except how unhappily it sounds.
Perhaps some good if she were spoken with, your majesty.
Let her come in.
To my sick soul, as true as nature is, how each new sin can
lead to some great amiss: so full of artless jealousy-
guilt: it spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?
"How should I your true love know From another one? By his
cockle hat and staff, And his sandal shoon."
Lady, why are you singing this?
Soft you--the song! "He is dead and gone, lady, he is dead
and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a
"White his shroud as the mountain snow."