the dead, not for the quick, therefore thou ly'st. Clown. 'Tis a quick lie, Sir, 'twill away again from me to you. Ham. What man doft thou dig it for? Clown. For no man, Sir. Ham. What woman then? Clown. For none neither. Ham. Who is to be buried in't? Clown. One that was a woman, Sir; but reft her foul, fhe's dead. Ham. How abfolute the knave is? we must speak by the card, or equivocation will follow us. By the lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken note of it, the age is grown so picked, that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of our courtier, he galls his kibe. How long haft thou been a grave-maker ? Clown. Of all the days i'th' year, I came to't that day that our laft King Hamlet o'ercame Fortinbras. Ham. How long is that fince? Clown. Cannot you tell that? every fool can tell that: it was that very day that young Hamlet was born, he that was mad, and fent into England. Ham. Ay marry, why was he sent into England? Clown. Why, because he was mad; he fhall recover his wits there; or if he do not, it's no great matter there. he. Ham. Why? Clown. 'Twill not be seen in him, there the men are as mad as Ham. How came he mad? Clown. Very ftrangely, they fay. Ham. How ftrangely? Clown. Faith e'en with lofing his wits. Ham. Upon what ground? Clown. Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty years. Ham. Ham. How long will a man lie i'th' earth ere he rot? Clown. I'faith, if he be not rotten before he die, (as we have many pocky coarses now-a-days, that will scarce hold the laying in) he will last you fome eight year, or nine year; a tanner will last you nine years. Ham. Why he, more than another? Clown. Why Sir, his hide is fo will keep out water a great while. cayer of your whorfon dead body. the earth three and twenty years. Ham. Whofe was it? tann'd with his trade, that he And your water is a fore deHere's a fcull now has lain in Clown. A whorfon mad fellow's it was; whose do you think it was? Ham. Nay, I know not. Clown. A peftilence on him for a mad rogue, he pour❜d a flagon of rhenish on my head once. This fame fcull, Sir, was Yo rick's fcull, the King's jester. Ham. This? Clown. Een that. Ham. Alas poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jeft; of moft excellent fancy: he hath born me on his back a thousand times: and now how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rifes at it. Here hung those lips that I have kiss'd I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now your gambols? your fongs? your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table in a roar? not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chop-fallen? now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour fhe must come; make her laugh at that ------Pr'ythee, Horatio, tell me one thing. Hor. What's that, my lord? Ham. Doft thou think Alexander look'd o" this fashion i'th' earth? Hor. E'en fo. Ham. Ham. And fmelt so, puh? Hor. E'en fo, my lord. [Smelling to the Scull. Ham. To what base uses we may return, Horatio! why may not imagination trace the noble duft of Alexander, 'till he find it stopping a bung-hole? Hor. 'Twere to confider too curioufly, to confider fo. Ham. No faith, not a jot. But to follow him thither with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it; as thus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth to duft; the dust is earth; of earth we make lome, and why of that lome whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel ? Imperial Cæfar dead and turn'd to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away: Oh, that that earth, which kept the world in awe, Enter King, Queen, Laertes, and a coffin, with Lords and The Queen, the courtiers. What is that they follow, Couch we a while, and mark. Laer. What ceremony else? Ham. That is Laertes, a most noble youth: mark- Prieft. Her obfequies have been as far enlarg'd 'Till the last trump. For charitable prayers, Shards, flints, and pebbles, should be thrown on her; Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home Of bell and burial. Laer. Muft no more be done? Prieft. No more be done: We should prophane the service of the dead, To fing a Requiem, and fuch reft to her Laer. Lay her i'th' earth, And from her fair and unpolluted flesh Ham. What, the fair Ophelia! Queen. Sweets to the sweet, farewel! I hop'd thou would'st have been my Hamlet's wife; Laer. O treble woe Fall tentimes treble on that cursed head, [Laertes leaps into the grave. Now pile your duft upon the quick and dead, Ham. [difcovering himself.] What is he, whofe griefs Like Like wonder-wounded hearers? this is I, Hamlet the Dane. Laer. The devil take thy foul! [Hamlet leaps into the grave. [Grappling with him. I pr'ythee take thy fingers from my throat Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand. King. Pluck them asunder Queen. Hamlet, Hamlet Hor. Good my lord be quiet. [The attendants part them. Ham. Why, I will fight with him upon this theme, Until my eye-lids will no longer wag. Queen. Oh my fon! what theme? Ham. I lov'd Ophelia; forty thousand brothers Could not with all their quantity of love Make fum. What wilt thou do for her? up my fum. King. O he is mad, Laertes. Queen. For love of God forbear him. Ham. Come fhew me what thou'lt do. Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't faft? woo't tear thy felf? Woo't drink up Efill, eat a crocodile ? I'll do't. Do'st thou come hither but to whine; To out-face me with leaping in her grave? Be buried quick with her; and fo will I; King. This is mere madness; And thus a while the fit will work on him: Anon |