Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Ophe. Say you? Nay pray you marke.
Ophe. He is dead and gone Lady, he is dead and gone,
Ophe. At his head a grasse‑greene Turfe, at his heeles a stone.
Ophe. Enter King.
Qu. Qu.
Qu. Nay but Ophelia.
Ophe. Ophe.
Ophe. Pray you marke.
Ophe. White his Shrow'd as the Mountaine Snow.
Qu. Alas, looke heere my Lord.
Ophe. Larded with sweet flowers:
Ophe. rend="italic">Which bewept to the graue did not go,
Ophe. With true‑loue showres.
King. King.
King. How do ye, pretty Lady?
Ophe. Well, God dil'd you. They say the Owle was
Ophe. a Bakers daughter. Lord, wee know what we are, but