Enter Shade of Ophelia

S. of O.: Yes, my lord, thine own Ophelia, Come back to earth with heaviness o' grief Thy madness ne'er begot, for I have seen The efforts of a lisping, smirking maid, As graceful as a bean-pole, and as lean. Attempt to paint the sorrow of my heart. Oh, I would get me to a nunnery.

S of H.: Let me Ophelyour pulse. Mad—quite mad; and all because A creature whom these mortals call a Miss, Quite properly, as her efforts are amiss, Would fain portray thee. Soft you, now! O fair Ophelia. Nymph in thine orisons Be all her sins remembered. Why let the stricken deer go weep, The untrained amateur play? All those that watch must surely weep. So wise men stay away.