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 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,
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia,
And therefore I forbid my tears:

(Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s
Day, And I a maid at your
window, To be your Valentine.
You promised me to wed.)

– William Shakespeare