Jascha Blume






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 ⟨an old⟩ man’s life?

⟨Nature is fine in love, and, where ’tis fine,
It sends some precious instance of itself
After the thing it loves.⟩

They bore him barefaced on the bier,
⟨Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny,⟩
And in his grave rained many a tear.

Fare you well, my dove.

 
 
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