GERTRUDE     Nay, but Ophelia –

OPHELIA        Pray you mark.

[Sings.]

        White his shroud as the mountain snow –

Enter CLAUDIUS.

GERTRUDE     Alas, look here, my lord.

OPHELIA

[Sings.]

        Larded all with sweet flowers

        Which bewept to the ground did not go

With true-love showers.

CLAUDIUS      How do you, pretty lady?

OPHELIA        Well, good dild you. They say the owl was a baker’s daughter. Lord, we know what we are but know not what we may be. God be at your table.         (4.5.34-44)

Nay but Ophelia—stop, listen, calm down. NO WAY. Pray you mark, says Ophelia, LISTEN to me, now it’s your turn to LISTEN. (And there can be the implication, even, that this is ‘about’ Old Hamlet as much as Polonius.) White his shroud as the mountain snow, the familiarity of shroud and snow intensified, perhaps estranged for an early modern audience, many of whom would never have seen a mountain. This shroud, whiter than white. Look, it’s Claudius, and Gertrude can’t help turning to him for support, helplessly: alas, look here, my lord. Her alas suggests personal concern for Ophelia rather than political calculation, but Claudius of course is the consummate politician; how can he do damage control with this?

Ophelia can be unconcerned, perhaps not even notice Claudius at first; she’s still picturing the shrouded corpse, larded all with sweet flowers (larded here is decorated, to be stuck with; it was common to stick rosemary and other herbs into a shroud, and while larded does suggest cooking, a joint of meat prepared for roasting, it’s not incongruous, although it can have an edge)—which bewept to the ground did not go with true-love showers. More edge here in the not, an addition to the traditional text, a recollection, perhaps, of a botched up, hasty funeral—and the true-love showers glance both at her other preoccupation here, betrayal in love, as well as, perhaps, at Gertrude’s mourning (or lack thereof) for her first husband.

Claudius is surprisingly gentle, or perhaps this is the only way he can think of approaching young women in distress: how do you, pretty lady? Oh sweetheart, what’s the matter? If Ophelia is already dishevelled, dirty, then it’s particularly distracting, but it’s belittling whatever. She can be sharp in response, mocking his babying with slight archaism: well, good dild you, God yield you; thank you. But then a turn inwards: they say the owl was a baker’s daughter—and yes it’s a folk tale, but it’s the transformation that’s striking, a longing to be anyone, anything but this, not to be in this place, or especially not in this body any longer. A yearning for metamorphosis. Lord, we know what we are but know not what we may be; that has a kind of fearful yearning too. What’s to come is still unsure, a sentiment which in good times can be full of hope, for growth and change, but now also seems broken, or even menacing. God be at your table. Bless you and your household—more scope for edge, a needling anti-blessing, for Ophelia is all alone, no lover, father, brother.