2 Clo. Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter? 1 Clo. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.' 2 Clo. Marry, now I can tell. 1 Clo. To't. 2 Clo. Mass, I cannot tell. Enter HAMLET and Horatio, at a distance. 1 Clo. Cudgel thy brains no more about it; for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating: and, when you are asked this question next, say, a grave-maker; the houses, that he makes, last till dooms-day. Go, get thee to Yaughan, and fetch me a stoup of liquor. [Exit 2 Clown. 1 Clown digs, and sings. In youth, when I did love, did love, Ham. Has this fellow no feeling of his business? he sings at grave-making. Hor. Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness. Ham. 'Tis e'en so: the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense. 1 Clo. But age, with his stealing steps, And hath shipped me into the land, [Throws up a scull. Ham. That scull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: How the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jaw-bone, that did the first murder! This might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o'er-reaches. Hor. It might, my lord. Ham. Or of a courtier; which could say, Goodmorrow, sweet lord! How dost thou, good lord? This might be my lord such-a-one, that praised my lord be released from further questioning. such-a-one's horse, when he meant to beg it; might it not? Hor. Ay, my lord. Ham. Why, e'en so: and now my lady Worm's,' chapless; and knocked about the mazzard with a sexton's spade: Here's fine revolution, an we had the trick to see't. Did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at loggats with them? mine ache to think on't. 2 1 Clo. A pick-axe, and a spade, a spade, For such a guest is meet. [Sings. [Throws up a scull. Ham. There's another: Why may not that be the scull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddits now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? Humph! This fellow might be in's time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognizances, his fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries. The very conveyances of his lands will hardly lie in this box; and must the inheritor himself have no more? ha? Hor. Not a jot more, my lord. Ham. I will speak to this fellow :-Whose grave's this, sirrah? 1 Clo. Mine, sir. O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet. Ham. What man dost thou dig it for? 1 Clo. For no man, sir. · Ham. What woman, then? [Sings. The scull that was my lord such-a-one's, is now my lady Worm's. 2 loggats, skittles. 3 quiddits, subtleties. 4 quillets, nice and frivolous distinctions. 1 Clo. For none neither. Ham. Who is to be buried in it? 1 Clo. One, that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she's dead. Ham. How absolute' the knave is! We must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By the lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken note of it; the age is grown so picked,3 that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe.-How long hast thou been a grave-maker? 1 Clo. Of all the days i' th' year, I came to't that day that our last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras. Ham. How long's that since? 1 Clo. Cannot you tell that? every fool can tell that: It was that very day that young Hamlet was born: he that is mad, and sent into England? Ham. Ay, marry, why was he sent into England? 1 Clo. Why, because he was mad: he shall recover his wits there; or, if he do not, 'tis no great matter there. Ham. Why? 1 Clo. "Twill not be seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he. Ham. How came he mad? 1 Clo. Very strangely, they say. Ham. How strangely? 1 Clo. 'Faith, e'en with losing his wits. Ham. Upon what ground? 1 Clo. Why, here in Denmark; I have been sexton here, man, and boy, thirty years. Ham. How long will a man lie i' th' earth ere he rot? 1 Clo. 'Faith, if he be not rotten before he die, (as we have many pocky corses now-a-days, that will 1 absolute, peremptory. We must speak with the same precision and accuracy as is observed in marking the true distances of coasts, &c. in a seachart, which, in Shakspeare's time, was called a card. 3 so spruce, scarce hold the laying in,) he will last you some eight year, or nine year: a tanner will last you nine year. Ham. Why he more than another? 1 Clo. Why, sir, his hide is so tanned with his trade, that he will keep out water a great while; and your water is a sore decayer of your whoreson dead body. Here's a scull now hath lain you i' th' earth three-and-twenty years. Ham. Whose was it? 1 Clo. A whoreson mad fellow's it was; Whose do you think it was? Ham. Nay, I know not. This 1 Clo. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! he poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. same scull, sir, was Yorick's scull, the king's jester. Ham. This? [Takes the scull. 1 Clo. E'en that. Ham. Alas, poor Yorick !-I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips, that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour' she must come; make her laugh at that.-Pr'ythee, Horatio, tell me one thing. Hor. What's that, my lord? Ham. Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i' th' earth? Hor. E'en so. Ham. And smelt so? pah! [Throws down the scull. Hor. E'en so, my lord. Ham. To what base uses we may return, Horatio ! But soft ! but soft! aside; Here comes the king, Enter Priests, fc. in procession; the corpse of The queen, the courtiers : Who is this they follow ? [Retiring with HORATIO. Laer. What ceremony else? A very noble youth : Mark. That is Laertes, 1 Priest. Her obsequies have been as far enlarg'd Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home Laer. Must there no more be done? 1 Priest. No more be done. We should profane the service of the dead, As to peace-parted souls. Laer. Lay her i' th' earth ; And from her fair and unpolluted flesh, May violets spring!-I tell thee, churlish priest, A minist ring angel shall my sister be, Ham. 1 imperfect obsequies. What, the fair Ophelia ! 3 shards, broken pieces of earthenware. |