LADY MACBETH. See, Regan, there she sits and broods upon Cordelia.
REGAN. I’ll tell her straight.
LADY MACBETH. ’Twere better not, too much of anguish may undo her.
REGAN. An overflow of bitterness will sure, then, taint Cordelia, and I
be some avenged. In any wise she soon must hear, and to later tear raw
the half healed wound were worse. I’ll tell her now.
_She approaches_ OPHELIA
Daughter of Polonius, turn thee from my father’s stain and heed my
news, thy tears do prove her comfort worthless. I do bring thee further
cause for grief, yet am I kind, in that I make thy present tears do
double duty. Thy father hath been murdered;--and by the mad lord Hamlet.