While mad Ophelia we lament,

And Her distraction mourn,

Our grief’s misplac’d, Our tears mispent,

Since what for Her condition’s meant

More justly fits Our Own.

For if ’tis happiness to be,

From all the turns of Fate,

From dubious joy, and sorrow free;

Ophelia then is blest, and we

Misunderstand Her state.

The Fates may do whate’er they will,

They can’t disturb her mind,

Insensible of good, or ill,

Ophelia is Ophelia still,

Be Fortune cross or kind.

Then make with reason no more noise,

Since what should give relief,

The quiet of Our mind destroys,

Or with a full spring-tide of joys,

Or a dead-ebb of grief.