Sunday, September 1, 2013

Act 4, Scene 7.

There is a Willow growes aslant a Brooke,
That shewes his hore leaues in the glassie streame:
There with fantasticke Garlands did she come,
Of Crow-flowers, Nettles, Daysies, and long Purples,
That liberall Shepheards giue a grosser name;
But our cold Maids doe Dead Mens Fingers call them:
There on the pendant boughes, her Coronet weeds
Clambring to hang; an enuious sliuer broke,
When downe the Weedy Trophies, and her selfe,
Fell in the weeping Brooke, her cloathes spred wide,
And Mermaid-like, a while they bore her vp,
Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes,
As one incapable of her owne distresse,
Or like a creature Natiue, and indued
Vnto that Element but long it could not be,
Till that her garments, heauy with her drinke,
Pul'd the poore wretch from her melodious buy,
To muddy death.


Image source.


girl6 said...

poor girl...
it is Quite sad, how she never had her Own identity.
she was Only able to see herself (her worth) thru the men in her of course..
when Hamlet abandoned her, she Completely crumbled, as there was Nothing left to give her the substance (support) she Needed, in order to stand (exist) on her own.
& i struggle with (my) this harsh view of her..i Have tried to find the romance in her weakness, but sadly, i have been Unable to do so..i have seen too many women in this world, denied the option of weakness, breakdowns & or feeling burned out, etc..& so, Ophelia is a stake in my heart..

what's that bad joke, the one about Ophelia's last words?..

i LOVE the peaceful quality of this pic...sighhhhhh.
makes me wanna be there!.<3333