Ophelia

"There is a willow grows aslant the brook

That shows his hoary 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 

Clamb'ring 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 snathes 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."

Hamlet, Act Four, Scene Seven