QUEEN. Let her come in.

[_Exit Gentleman._]

To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is, Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss. So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

Enter Ophelia.

OPHELIA. Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark?

QUEEN. How now, Ophelia?

OPHELIA. [_Sings._] How should I your true love know From another one? By his cockle hat and staff And his sandal shoon.