I have not art to reckon my groans thine evermore,
Most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him.

Ophelia : He took me by the wrist, and held me hard ;
Then goes he to the length of ail his arm,
And, with his other hand thus o’er his brow,
He falls to such perusal of my face,
As he would draw it. Long stay’d he so ;
At last, — a little shaking of mine arm,
And thrice his head thus waving up and down,
He rais’d a sight so piteous and profound,
That it did seem to shatter all his bulk,
And end his being. That done he lets me go,
And with his head over his shoulder turn’d
He seem’d to find his way without his eyes ;
For out o’doors he went without their help,
And to the last bended their light on me.

Polonius : This is the very ecstasy of love.