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OPHELIA.

Laertes.

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.

[Sings.
Laertes. Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,
She turns to favour and to prettiness.
Ophelia. And will he not come again?

[Sings.
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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DESDEMONA.

Othello.

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.

THE END.

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

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