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, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!

How should I your true love know
From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,
And his sandal shoon

He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone,
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.