by Arthur Hughes

by Jules-Joseph Lefebvre by Paul Albert Steck by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

by J.W. Waterhouse by J.W. Waterhouse

by J.W. Waterhouse

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 pendant boughs her coronet weeds
Clamb'ring to hand, 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 lauds,
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 poorwretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.

Hamlet, Act 4 Scene 7 Lines 165-82

by John Everett Millais

by Arthur Hughes

by Antoine-Auguste-Ernest Hebert by Thomas Francis Dicksee

by Henrietta Rae

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