QUEEN. Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?

OPHELIA. Say you? Nay, pray you mark. [_Sings._] He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone, At his head a grass green turf, At his heels a stone.

QUEEN. Nay, but Ophelia—

OPHELIA. Pray you mark. [_Sings._] White his shroud as the mountain snow.

Enter King.

QUEEN. Alas, look here, my lord!