“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 swathes of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress, or like a creature native and indued unto that element: but long it could not be till her garments, heavy with their drink, pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay to muddy death.”