When down her weedy trophies and herselfFell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide; And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up: Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes; As one incapable of her own distress, Or like a creature native and induedUnto that element: but long it could not beTill that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious layTo muddy death. (Ophelia)