Sep 5, 2013
To the celestial, and my soul's idol, the most beautified Ophelia,
In her excellent white bosom, these, etc.
     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.
