Woul’t drink up Esil? eat a crocodile?
I’ll do’t. Dost thou come here to whine?
To outface me with leaping in her grave?
Be buried quick with her, and so will I.
And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw
Millions of acres on us; till our ground,
Singeing his pate against the burning zone,
Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou’lt mouth,
I’ll rant as well as thou.
Ophelia’s madness is caused by the extravagance of her love; and it is worthy of remark that she is finally drowned in consequence of venturing too far on the “pendent boughs” of a willow which grew “ascaunt the brook.”