GERTRUDE
I will not speak with her.
GENTLEMAN
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.
HORATIO
Perhaps some good if she were spoken with, your majesty.
Let her come in.
(Gentleman bows/exits.)
GERTRUDE (CONT'D)
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.
(Gentleman/Ophelia enter.)
OPHELIA
Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?
GERTRUDE
Ophelia.
OPHELIA
(singing)
"How should I your true love know From another one? By his
cockle hat and staff, And his sandal shoon."
GERTRUDE
Lady, why are you singing this?
OPHELIA
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
stone." Oh!
GERTRUDE
Ophelia!
OPHELIA
"White his shroud as the mountain snow."
(Enter Claudius.)
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