Ophelia

Ophelia

ARTWORK

Ophelia

 

 

 

“Queen Gertrude:

There is a willow grows aslant a brook 

That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream. 

There with fantastic garlands did she come 

Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, 

That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, 

But our cold maids do “dead men’s fingers” call them. 

There, on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds 

Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke, 

When down her weedy trophies and herself 

Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide, 

And mermaid-like a while they bore her up, 

Which time she chanted snatches of old lauds 

As one incapable of her own distress, 

Or like a creature native and indued 

Unto that element. But long it could not be 

Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, 

Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay 

To muddy death.”

– Act 4, Scene 7, line 183

Hamlet, W. Shakespeare