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? 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'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 tanned with his trade, that he will keep out water a great while; i'the and your water is a sore decayer of your whoreson dead body. Here's a scull now hath lain you 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 Clò. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! he poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This 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 !-1 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 the earth › Hor. E'en so. Ham. And smelt so? pah! [Throws down the Scull. 4 Countenance, complexion. Hor. E'en so, my lord. 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, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away : O, that the earth, which kept the world in awe, Should patch a wall to expel the winter's flaw!" But soft! but soft! aside:-Here comes the king. Enter Priests, &c. in Procession; the Corpse of The queen, the courtiers: Who is this they follow? Lacr. What ceremony else? 1 Priest. Her obsequies have been as far enlarg'd As we have warranty: Her death was doubtful; And, but that great command o'ersways the order, She should in ground unsanctified have lodg'd 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,2 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'the earth ;— And from her fair and unpolluted flesh, May violets spring !—I tell thee, churlish priest, A minist'ring angel shall my sister be, When thou liest howling. Ham. What, the fair Ophelia ! Queen. Sweets to the sweet: Farewell! [Scattering Flowers. I hop'd, thou should'st 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 f Fall ten times treble on that cursed head, 1 Broken pots or tiles. 2 Garlands. 3 A mass for the dead. Till I have caught her once more in mine arms : [Leaps into the Grave, 4 4 Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead; Till of this flat a mountain you have made To o'er-top old Pelion, or the skyish head 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. Laer. [Leaps into the Grave. The devil take thy soul! [Grappling with him. Ham. Thou pray'st not well. J pr'ythee, take thy fingers from my throat; Which let thy wisdom fear: Hold off thy hand. Queen. All. Gentlemen, Hor. Hamlet, Hamlet! 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 lov'd Ophelia; forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love Make up my sum.-What wilt thou do for her? 4 Living. |