him dead. Then she must of course go mad. But her madness is not so black and gloomily brooding as that of Hamlet, since it deludes, soothing with sweet songs her poor distracted head. Her soft voice melts away in music, and flowers, and still more flowers, entwine themselves in all her thoughts. She sings while plaiting wreaths to deck her brow, and smiles with gleaming smiles alas, poor child!
Laer. Drown'd ! O, where?
Queen. There is a willow grows ascaunt the brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream ;
Therewith fantastic garlands did she make
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, a while 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,
Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death."[1]
Yet why should I tell you this sad history? You all knew it from your childhood, and have
- ↑ Hamlet, act iv. ac. 7.
