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O rose of May !
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia !
O heavens! is 't possible, a young maid's wits
Should be as mortal as an old man's life?
Nature is fine in love; and, where 'tis fine,
It sends some precious instance of itself
After the thing it loves.
Ophelia. They bure him barefac'd on the bier ;

Hey no nonny, nonny hey nonny :

And in his grave rain d many a tear ;Fare you well, my dove!

Laertes. Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, It could not move thus.

Ophelia. You must sing, Down-a-down, an you call him a-down-a. 0, how the wheel becomes it! it is the false steward, that stole his master's daughter.

Laertes. This nothing's more than matter.

Ophelia. There's rosemary, that's for remembrance ; 'pray you love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.

Laertes. A document in madness; thoughts and remembrance fitted.

Ophelia, There's fennel for you, and columbines :—there's rue for you; and here's some for me :—we may call it, herb of grace o' Sundays :—you may wear your rue with a difference.—There's a daisy ;-I would give you some violets; but they withered all, when my father died ;—They say, he made a good end,For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.

Laertes. Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,
She turns to favour and to prettiness.
Ophelia. 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 ;

God 'a mercy on his soul !
And of all Christian souls! I pray God. God be wi' you!

HAMLET. - Act IV. Scene V.

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These things to hear, Would Desdemona seriously incline: But still the house affairs would draw her thence; Which ever as she could with haste despatch, She'd come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse: Which I observing, Took once a pliant hour; and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, Whereof by parcels she had something heard, But not intentively: I did consent; And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke, That my youth suffer'd. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs: She swore,—In faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful : She wish'd, she had not heard it; yet she wish'd That heaven had made her such a man; she thanked me; And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake : She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd; And I lov'd her, that she did pity them.

OTHELLO. — Act I, Scene 111.


T. C. Savill, Printer, 4, Chandos Street, Covent Garden.

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