Ophelia

To the celestial, and my soul's idol, the most beautified Ophelia---

Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.
O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers. I have
not art to reckon my groans; but that I love thee best,
O most best, believe it. Adieu.

Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this
machine is to him,
Hamlet

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Ophelia, the poor thing -- she never had a chance. And yet I continue to put myself into situations of tragic love and long for letters such as this to wind up at my doorstep.

She died of a broken heart. How utterly ridiculous and beautifully cliche.

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