ORPHELIA.
He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders
Of his affection to me.
POLONIUS.
Affection! pooh! you speak like a green girl,
Unsifted in such perilous circumstance.
Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?
ORPHELIA.
I do not know, my lord, what I should think.
POLONIUS.
Marry, I'll teach you: think yourself a baby;
That you have ta'en these tenders for true pay,
Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly;
Or, — not to crack the wind of the poor phrase,
Wronging it thus, — you'll tender me a fool.
ORPHELIA.
My lord, he hath importun'd me with love
In honourable fashion.
POLONIUS.
Ay, fashion you may call it; go to, go to.
ORPHELIA.
And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord,
With almost all the holy vows of heaven.
