too much of water hast thou, poor ophelia.
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 crow-flowers, 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 pendent 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, awhile they bore her up:
which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;
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,
pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
to muddy death.
hamlet, act iv, scene vii
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