O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers.

This line begs further analysis and/or investigation. The only time I can imagine saying “I am ill at these numbers” would be in relationship to a set of figures that have recently been revealed. Like, if I’d just lost a fortune in the stock market and my financial advisor just showed me the details. Those numbers might make me ill. Or, more like MY life, if I just saw the negative balance in my bank account next to the number of my student loan payment. I have been ill at those numbers. But somehow I don’t think that’s love poem material. Stars, sun, truth, love, financial report?
Nope. Numbers must be pointing at something else. Illness being a perfectly normal response to love, it must be the numbers that are something other than numbers.
It’s not like Hamlet is confessing an odd quirk wherein the mention of #7 makes him nauseous. Plus, no numbers follow “These numbers.” It doesn’t read: I am ill at these numbers: 7, 23 and 15. But what these numbers are is a total mystery to me. I make a little stretch to the numbers of feet in a verse and wonder if he’s saying, “O Ophelia, I’m a lousy poet.” Because that would make sense. Particularly because he kind of IS a lousy poet if this love letter is any indication.
He’s kind of the best poet ever in his everyday speech, though, so there’s that.

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