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: Is this the fine of his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his fine pate full of fine dirt? Will his vouchers vouch him no more of his purchases, and double ones too, than the length and breadth of a pair of indentures? 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. Is not parchment made of sheep-skins? Ham. They are sheep, and calves, which seek out assurance in that. 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. [Sings. Ham. I think it be thine, indeed; for thou liest in't. 1 Clo. You lie out on't, Sir, and therefore it is not yours for my part, I do not lie in't, yet it is mine. Ham. Thou dost lie in't, to be in't, and say it is. thine 'tis for the dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest. 1 Clo. Tis a quick lie, Sir; 'twill away again, from me to you. Ham. What man dost thou dig it for? 1 Clo. For no man, Sir. Ham. What woman then? 1 Clo. For none neither. Ham. Who is to be buried in't? 1 Clo. One, that was a woman, Sir; but, rest her 1 soul, she's dead. Ham. How absolute the knave is! We must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By the • Subtilties. + Frivolous distinctions. 9 By the compass, or chart of direction. Head. 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 the courtier, he galls his kibe.-How long hast thou been a grave-maker? 1 Clo. Of all the days i' the 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? K 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 sex ton here, man and boy, thirty years. Ham. How long will a man lie i' the 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 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 tann'd 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' the 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. 1 Clo. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! He pour'd a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same scull, Sir, was Yorick's scull, the king's jester. [Takes the Scull. Ham. This? 1 Clo. E'en that. Spruce, affected. 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 look'd o' this. fashion i' the earth? Hor. E'en so. Ham. And smelt so? pah! Hor. E'en so, my lord. [Throws down the Scull. Ham. To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping a bunghole? Hor. 'Twere to consider too curiously, to consider so. 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 dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam: and why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel? Imperious Cæsar, dead, and turn'd to clay, O, that the earth, which kept the world in awe, Should patch a wall to expel the winter's flaw ŢI But soft! but soft! Aside:-Here comes the king. Enter PRIEST, &c. in procession; the Corpse of OPHELIA, LAERTES, and Mourners following; KING, QUEEN, their Trains, &c. The queen, the courtiers: Who is this they follow? And with such maimed rites ! This doth betoken, Countenance, complexion. + Imperial. Imperfect obsequies. Blast. The corse, they follow, did with desperate hand Fordo its own life. Twas of some estate+: Couch we a while, and mark. [Retiring with Horatio. Laer. What ceremony else? A very noble youth: mark. 1 Priest. Her obsequies have been as far enlarged As we have warranty: her death was doubtful; And, but that great command o'ersways the order, She should in ground unsanctified have lodged, Till the last trumpet; for charitable prayers, Shards, flints, and pebbles, should be thrown on her: Yet here she is allow'd her virgin crants, Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home Of bell and burial. Laer. Must there no more be done? 1 Priest. No more be done! We should profane the service of the dead, Laer. Lay her i' the earth; And from her fair and unpolluted flesh,, May violets spring!-I tell thee, churlish priest, A ministering angel shall my sister be, When thou liest howling. Ham. What, the fair Ophelia ! Queen. Sweets to the sweet: Farewell! [Scattering Flowers. I hoped, thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife; I thought, thy bride-bed to have deck'd sweet maid, And not have strew'd thy grave. Laer. O, treble woe Fall ten times treble on that cursed head, Undo, destroy. + High rank. Garlands. Broken pots or tiles. A mass for the dead. Till of this flat a mountain you have made Ham. [Advancing.] What is he, whose grief Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow Conjures the wand'ring stars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane. [Leaps into the Grave. Laer. The devil take thy soul! Ham. Thou pray'st not well. [Grappling with him. pr'ythee, take thy fingers from my throat; Queen. Hamlet, Hamlet! All. Gentlemen,―― Hor. Good my lord, be quiet. [The Attendants part them, and they come out of the Grave. Ham. Why, I will fight with him upon this theme, Until my eyelids will no longer wag. Queen. O my son! what theme? Ham. I loved Ophelia; forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum.-What wilt thou do for her? King. O, he is mad, Laertes. Queen. For love of God, forbear him. Woul't drink up Esil? eat a crocodile ? Queen. This is mere madness: And thus a while the fit will work on him; Anon, as patient as the female dove, Eisel is vinegar; but Mr. Steevens conjectures the word should be Weisel, a river which falls into the Baltic ocean. |