Scene One.—A ROOM IN POLONIUS’S HOUSE.
Enter Polonius (L.H.), meeting Ophelia. (R.H.)
Pol. How now, Ophelia! What’s the matter?
Oph. O, my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!
Pol. With what, in the name of Heaven?
Oph. My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,
Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac’d;
Pale as his shirt; his knees knocking each other,
And with a look so piteous in purport,
He comes before me.
Pol. Mad for thy love?
My lord, I do not know;
But, truly, I do fear it.
What said he?
Oph. He took me by the wrist, and held me hard;
Then goes he to the length of all his arm;
And, with his other hand thus o’er his brow,
He falls to such perusal of my face
As he would draw it. Long staid he so;
At last,—a little shaking of mine arm,
And thrice his head thus waving up and down,
He rais’d a sigh so piteous and profound,
As it did seem to shatter all his bulk,
And end his being: That done, he lets me go:
And, with his head over his shoulder turn’d,
He seem’d to find his way without his eyes;
For out o’doors he went without their helps,
And, to the last, bended their light on me.
Pol. Come, go with me; I will go seek the king.
This is the very ecstacy of love;
What, have you given him any hard words of late?
Oph. No, my good lord; but, as you did command,
I did repel his letters, and denied
His access to me.
That hath made him mad.
Come, go we to the king:
This must be known; which, being kept close, might move
More grief to hide than hate to utter love.