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‹Too much water hast though, poor Ophelia›
77 M Denmark
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Last login: 11 April 2012
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Member since: 27 March 2012
Hamlet, Act 4- Scene 7


    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. 


    Alas, then, she is drown'd? 


    Drown'd, drown'd.  


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‹<cutie Macy>› 27 Mar 12  
wat about girls?
‹Too much water hast though, poor Ophelia› 27 Mar 12  
of course
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