Oph.
My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,
Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac‘d,
No hat upon his head, his stockings foul‘d,
Ungarter‘d and down-gyved to his ankle,
Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other,
And with a look so piteous in purport
As if he had been loosed out of hell
To speak of horrors, he comes before me. - P234