Polonius. [Reads] To the celestial and my soul's idol, the most beautified
Ophelia - That's an ill phrase, a vile phrase, 'beautified' is a
vile phrase. But you shall hear thus: in her excellent bosom, these, etc.
............ Doubt that the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.
Oh dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers. I have not art to
reckon my groans. But that I love thee best, oh, most best,
believe it. Adieu. Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this
machine is to him, Hamlet.