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Oh, this is the poison of deep grief. It springs
All from her father’s death, and now behold!
O Gertrude, Gertrude,
When sorrows come, they come not single spies
But in battalions. First, her father slain.
Next, your son gone, and he most violent author
Of his own just remove. The people muddied,
Thick, and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers
For good Polonius’ death, and we have done but greenly
In hugger-mugger to inter him. Poor Ophelia
Divided from herself and her fair judgment,
Without the which we are pictures, or mere beasts.
Hamlet Act 4 Scene 5.
For Hamlet’s plot till now, see Hamlet So Far.
Act 4 Scene 5. Some say that it was Elsinore that drove Ophelia mad. Others that it was the death of her father by her lover’s hand. Still others ask where her brother was when she needed him most. But others say that they were all mad. Elsinore could do that to its inhabitants.
There was a time when she was a maiden, running through green fields with flowers in her hair and loved by a young handsome prince. ‘Course those were the days before the prince went away happy, then came back sad. Now she is a bride in black, Grief her husband-to-be.
In her room, she sat and wondered. Was it her father she had seen or was it not her father? The details were unclear. He moaned through a murky fog from a distance.
So she called out, “Please, Horatio, be kind and take me to the queen. I won’t embarrass you but I need to know if it was my father I saw.” Oh, if it only were, and only if only he would speak his love for me.
Horatio went down the hall, trying to convince the queen. “Your Majesty, you must speak with her.”
Queen Gertrude was afraid to face the daughter of the old counselor, the one she last saw fall dead in her chambers. What if Ophelia asked for details? I don’t think I could take that.
Finally Gertrude agreed, then breathed a sigh. She must do what she must do.
All that came from Ophelia’s lips were words that Ophelia didn’t even understand. And she sang in incomplete thoughts. The song she sang was a prayer but who could tell what her prayer was for. Certainly not Gertrude. And certainly not Claudius.
Something about white his shroud as the mountain snow. Then her mind went wandering. Where she went neither the queen nor the king knew.
Alll they could do was pray, “Deliver her from evil.”