Tuesday, 25 March 2014

Ophelia, my sweet

  Sweet Ophelia necklace, papierdoreille' s Spring 2014 collection
© Francesca Zabarella 

 John Everett Millais, Ophelia, 1851-1852. Oil on canvas, London, Tate Britain.
© Tate Britain, London.

Odilon Redon, Ophelia parmi les fleurs, 1903.
Pastel on paper, private collection.
William Shakespeare, HAMLET, Act IV, Scene 5

Ophelia. There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love,
remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.

Laertes. A document in madness! Thoughts and remembrance fitted.

Ophelia. There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you,
and here's some for me. We may call it herb of grace o' Sundays.
O, you must wear your rue with a difference! There's a daisy. I
would give you some violets, but they wither'd all when my father
died. They say he made a good end. 
[Sings] For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy. 

Laertes. Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,
She turns to favour and to prettiness.

Ophelia. [sings]
And will he not come again?
And will he not come again?
No, no, he is dead;
Go to thy deathbed;
He never will come again.
His beard was as white as snow,
All flaxen was his poll.
He is gone, he is gone,
And we cast away moan.
God 'a'mercy on his soul!
And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God b' wi' you.

  © Francesca Zabarella 

William Shakespeare, HAMLET, Act IV, Scene 7

Gertrude. 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 crowflowers, 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 pendant boughs her coronet weeds
Clamb'ring to hang, an envious sliver broke,
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up;
Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element; but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death. 

© Francesca Zabarella

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