moment, then sang:
"Where the bee lights, there dip I
my tongue;
I'll taste the flowers until I die
so young!"
Though his song was lusty, he kissed me very courteously. In turn, I sang:
"Here by the greenwood tree, fa la,
Come, love, and lie with me, fa la."
Taking my song as an invitation, Hamlet put his head in my lap, and I gently pushed him away.
"You are too eager, my lord," I said, and he withdrew at once.
"I did not mean to offend you, Ophelia," he said, taking my hand instead.
I got up to pick fresh flowers to replace wilted ones. Passing through the meadow, I came upon a small brown bird that had fallen from its nest on a branch overhead. I picked it up and held it in my palm. Its heart, visible beneath skin more fine than the thinnest sheet of vellum, was no longer beating. When Hamlet came upon me, I was weeping, and this embarrassed me more than his head on my lap.
"I am sorry. I am not practiced in love. When will you forgive me?" he pleaded.
"It is not that," I said, touched by his humility. "You have not offended me." I showed him the bird. "It is this that makes me weep, though I do not know why."
"Perhaps because this creature had a spirit, but now it is flown?" Hamlet offered. His brow was furrowed, as if my sadness confused and worried him.
"Where is its mother?" I whispered. "Why could she not save it?" I looked around to see dozens of birds flitting and singing, careless of the dead one in my hand.
"Nowhere. Nature is beautiful, but she can be cruel. Just like a woman," Hamlet mused. "Though not you, of course. Cruel, I mean. That is, you are beautiful, but not cruel."
Now Hamlet blushed and stammered, and I could not help but smile.
"Does it not say in the Bible that there is providence even in the fall of a sparrow?" I asked.
"Yes, and it says that every hair on our heads is numbered, for we are more precious than any sparrow. Therefore do not fret," said Hamlet, and with a kiss, I let myself be comforted.
Another day, as the sun fled across the sky, we roamed the woods between Elsinore and the village as Horatio followed us in silence. At dusk, we came upon a deserted cottage of crumbling stones, which looked like a hermit's dwelling. In the hearth we kindled a small fire against the chill. Horatio declined to join us as we ate our bread and cheese.
"Why is Horatio so unsmiling today?" I asked.
"He is not," denied Hamlet. "Like himself, he is ever the same. Give it no further thought." He shared his flask of ale with me, then drank of it himself. But I persisted, uneasy.
"Does he disapprove of our courtship?"
Hamlet spewed liquid from his mouth, and bitter words with it.
"The whole world would disapprove of our courtship, Ophelia!" he exclaimed, waving the flask in a broad arc. "Horatio fears I do but trifle with you. He is wrong, mind you. And your father! Your family's honor would demand that your brother challenge me to a duel."
"They do not know that we meet, nor can they prevent it," I said, with more certainty than I felt. For months my father had been away on the king's business, and Laertes was studying in France. I did not want to think about the consequences of being discovered by them.
"You know, I am the heir of Denmark—" began Hamlet, as if I had forgotten.
"Yes, and I am no one," I whispered.
"No, you are my love. But my father the king has alliances to secure by marrying me to a princess of France or Germany. He will prevent us." Hamlet's tone was matter-of-fact. He fell silent and fed sticks to the small fire.
I stood up awkwardly and stumbled to the cottage door. Beyond its battered frame the black-barked trees grew straight to the heavens, disdaining the forest floor, where tangled heather and brush hid the path leading from this lonely spot.
How foolish I had been to think I was as free as any peasant girl and as worthy as any king's daughter! I gazed out into the forest.
"This courtship is ill-fated. No good can come of it for you or me," I said
"Where the bee lights, there dip I
my tongue;
I'll taste the flowers until I die
so young!"
Though his song was lusty, he kissed me very courteously. In turn, I sang:
"Here by the greenwood tree, fa la,
Come, love, and lie with me, fa la."
Taking my song as an invitation, Hamlet put his head in my lap, and I gently pushed him away.
"You are too eager, my lord," I said, and he withdrew at once.
"I did not mean to offend you, Ophelia," he said, taking my hand instead.
I got up to pick fresh flowers to replace wilted ones. Passing through the meadow, I came upon a small brown bird that had fallen from its nest on a branch overhead. I picked it up and held it in my palm. Its heart, visible beneath skin more fine than the thinnest sheet of vellum, was no longer beating. When Hamlet came upon me, I was weeping, and this embarrassed me more than his head on my lap.
"I am sorry. I am not practiced in love. When will you forgive me?" he pleaded.
"It is not that," I said, touched by his humility. "You have not offended me." I showed him the bird. "It is this that makes me weep, though I do not know why."
"Perhaps because this creature had a spirit, but now it is flown?" Hamlet offered. His brow was furrowed, as if my sadness confused and worried him.
"Where is its mother?" I whispered. "Why could she not save it?" I looked around to see dozens of birds flitting and singing, careless of the dead one in my hand.
"Nowhere. Nature is beautiful, but she can be cruel. Just like a woman," Hamlet mused. "Though not you, of course. Cruel, I mean. That is, you are beautiful, but not cruel."
Now Hamlet blushed and stammered, and I could not help but smile.
"Does it not say in the Bible that there is providence even in the fall of a sparrow?" I asked.
"Yes, and it says that every hair on our heads is numbered, for we are more precious than any sparrow. Therefore do not fret," said Hamlet, and with a kiss, I let myself be comforted.
Another day, as the sun fled across the sky, we roamed the woods between Elsinore and the village as Horatio followed us in silence. At dusk, we came upon a deserted cottage of crumbling stones, which looked like a hermit's dwelling. In the hearth we kindled a small fire against the chill. Horatio declined to join us as we ate our bread and cheese.
"Why is Horatio so unsmiling today?" I asked.
"He is not," denied Hamlet. "Like himself, he is ever the same. Give it no further thought." He shared his flask of ale with me, then drank of it himself. But I persisted, uneasy.
"Does he disapprove of our courtship?"
Hamlet spewed liquid from his mouth, and bitter words with it.
"The whole world would disapprove of our courtship, Ophelia!" he exclaimed, waving the flask in a broad arc. "Horatio fears I do but trifle with you. He is wrong, mind you. And your father! Your family's honor would demand that your brother challenge me to a duel."
"They do not know that we meet, nor can they prevent it," I said, with more certainty than I felt. For months my father had been away on the king's business, and Laertes was studying in France. I did not want to think about the consequences of being discovered by them.
"You know, I am the heir of Denmark—" began Hamlet, as if I had forgotten.
"Yes, and I am no one," I whispered.
"No, you are my love. But my father the king has alliances to secure by marrying me to a princess of France or Germany. He will prevent us." Hamlet's tone was matter-of-fact. He fell silent and fed sticks to the small fire.
I stood up awkwardly and stumbled to the cottage door. Beyond its battered frame the black-barked trees grew straight to the heavens, disdaining the forest floor, where tangled heather and brush hid the path leading from this lonely spot.
How foolish I had been to think I was as free as any peasant girl and as worthy as any king's daughter! I gazed out into the forest.
"This courtship is ill-fated. No good can come of it for you or me," I said
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