Ophelia

There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar-leaves in the glassy stream,
There, with fantastic garlands did she come,
There, on the pendant boughs, her coronet weeds,
Clambering to hang, an envious slither 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 chanted snatches of old tunes.
But long it could not be, till that her garments,
Heavy with their drink, pulled the poor wretch,
From her melodious lay, to muddy death.
Drowned, drowned.

Shakespeare


Santa Maria, Santa Maria Virgo,
Agnes Dei, Agnes Dei,
Santa Maria, Santa Maria Virgo.