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Follow her close; give her good watch,I pray you.O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springsAll from her father's death. O Gertrude, Gertrude,When sorrows come, they come not single spiesBut in battalions. First, her father slain:Next, your son gone; and he most violent authorOf his own just remove: the people muddied,Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers,For good Polonius' death; and we have done but greenly,In hugger-mugger to inter him: poor OpheliaDivided from herself and her fair judgment,Without the which we are pictures, or mere beasts:Last, and as much containing as all these,Her brother is in secret come from France;Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds,And wants not buzzers to infect his earWith pestilent speeches of his father's death;Wherein necessity, of matter beggar'd,Will nothing stick our person to arraignIn ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this,Like to a murdering-piece, in many placesGives me superfluous death.