Hamlet, Act 4, Scene 5

O heat, dry up my brains! Tears seven times salt Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye! By heaven, thy madness shall be paid with weight Till our scale turn the beam! O rose of May, Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! O heavens, is ’t possible a young maid’s wits Should be as mortal as man’s life?
They bore him barefaced on the bier, And in his grave rained many a tear. Fare you well, my dove.