To the celestial, and my soul’s idol, the most beautified Ophelia –

And here we begin with one of the big questions I have about Hamlet.

Why is he such a shitty writer and such an excellent talker?

A man who can come up with “What a piece of work is a man, etc” on the fly should be able to come up with some better damn verses than this nonsense.

This is like, Hallmark generic introduction.

This is like, photo of a sunset over a beach, printed in swoopy sappy calligraphy on the front. And the Roses are Red, Violets are Blue crap in the middle isn’t much better.

How is it POSSIBLE that a man who thinks in paragraph long parenthetical sentences would be satisfied with this? Polonius’ criticism of the writing is not unwarranted. This shit is DUMB, man!

And listen, if I’m in love with someone and he calls me celestial, his soul’s idol and/or beautified, I will probably be flattered and appreciate being held in such an exalted state. But I don’t know if I’d believe him. Because this is love generalities 101. And granted, love can make fools of us all – but does it make a brilliant thinker a crappy writer, too? It just doesn’t make any sense. Why would a man whose TOP STRENGTH is his way with words, use such cloddish language to woo his love? The thick lords in Love’s Labor’s Lost do better. Orlando (who’s a WRESTLER and by all accounts not a good poet) does better. Hell, Maria does better love letter writing as a joke!
So what is up with Hamlet’s letters? Are they really his? But to whom else would they belong? The only part of this missive that sounds like Hamlet is his sign-off. The rest? Clumsy. Cliché. Not worthy of the man they come from. It’s like he sent her greeting cards and just signed his name.

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