ORPHELIA.
My lord, as I was sewing in my chamber,
Lord Hamlet, — with his doublet all unbrac'd;
No hat upon his head; his stockings foul'd,
Ungart'red, and down-gyved to his ankle;
Pale as his shirt; his knees knocking each other;
And with a look so piteous in purport
As if he had been loosed out of hell
To speak of horrors, — he comes before me.
POLONIUS.
Mad for thy love?
ORPHELIA.
My lord, I do not know;
But truly I do fear it.
POLONIUS.
What said he?
