Arthur Hughes - Ophelia 1865
Arthur Hughes - Ophelia 1865
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There is a willow grows aslant the brook There, on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds As one incapable of her own distress,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; Clamb'ring to hang, an envious sliver broke; Or like a creature native and indued
Therewith fantastic garlands did she make When down her weedy trophies and herself Unto that element; but long it could not be

Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples

Fell in the Weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide Till her garments, heavy with their drink,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up; Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay
But our cold maids do dead mens fingers call them. Which time she chanted snatches of old lauds, To muddy death.
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE - HAMLET
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