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 the weedy trophies and herself

Fell in the weeping brook.  Her clothes spread wide,

And mermaid-like awhile they bore her uo;

Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes,

As one incapable of her own distress,

Or like a creature native and endued

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.

-Gertrude, The Tragedy of Hamlet