ROMEO. O how rare One pearl’s esteem’d until another’s found, While that becomes the chief, till straight a third Shines forth. So is’t with me. When Rosaline I saw no lesser she might then with her Compare. Next Juliet came athwart my sight, And her I lov’d, forgetting Rosaline. But now is Capulet’s young daughter sped From forth my heart and in her place this fair Unknown in Juliet’s stead is worshipped. [_He seems about to approach_ MIRANDA, _but is withheld by_ MERCUTIO. MERCUTIO. Inconstant Romeo, have a care. For me, I think her wed, and that the husband there, May have a word to change with thee. ROMEO. Prate not To me of husbands, my Mercutio-- MERCUTIO. Have peace, rash Romeo, thou--But who comes here? [_Enter_ OPHELIA, _strewing flowers_. Poor, tearful lady! See, she weeps, and smiles Aweeping, wrings her hand, and smiles again. ROMEO. She makes as if to speak to us, poor soul. OPHELIA. This is All Hallow Eve. They say to-night each Jill may see her Jack that is to come. But these be idle tales to juggle us poor maids, withal, for I no Jack have found. Cophetua, they say, was a king who was wed to a beggar maid; a pretty tale is’t not? But there’s no truth in’t; there be no such happenings now, for my love was a prince indeed, but we were never wed, and now he is gone. [_Weeps_] He was a goodly youth to look on, but he is dead by this and burns in hell. [_Sings_] He is dead who wronged the maid; He is dead, perdy. In the grave his bones are laid, Hey, and woe is me. O my love was tall and fine; Fair he was to see. As light doth from a jewel shine, His eyes shined on me. I cry your pardon, good people all. But there’s something lost, I think, and ’twill not be found for all my searching. [_Enter_ HAMLET. HAMLET. The fair Ophelia. Sweet maid, do you not know me? OPHELIA. No, forsooth; I did never see you before, and yet methinks your eye hath a trick of Prince Hamlet’s in it. But that’s all one, for the Lord Hamlet is dead, and they say his soul is in hell for cozening us poor maids. [_Sings_] He is dead that wronged the maid; He is dead, perdy. MIRANDA. I scarce can see for weeping. Would there were But somewhat I might do to ease her pain. FERDINAND. Her woe, me thinketh, is long past its cure. But look! here comes a sadder wight than she. [_Enter_ CONSTANCE, _with hair unbound_.