LITMIR.BIZ

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1 Clown.

       Mine, sir.

       [Sings.]

       O, a pit of clay for to be made

       For such a guest is meet.

       Ham.

       I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in’t.

       1 Clown.

       You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore ‘tis 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 Clown. ‘Tis a quick lie, sir; ‘t will away again from me to you.

       Ham.

       What man dost thou dig it for?

       1 Clown. For no man, sir.

       Ham.

       What woman then?

       1 Clown. For none neither.

       Ham.

       Who is to be buried in’t?

       1 Clown. 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 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 Clown. Of all the days i’ the year, I came to’t that day that our last King Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.

       Ham.

       How long is that since?

       1 Clown. Cannot you tell that? every fool can tell that: it was the very day that young Hamlet was born,—he that is mad, and sent into England.

       Ham.

       Ay, marry, why was be sent into England?

       1 Clown. Why, because he was mad: he shall recover his wits there; or, if he do not, it’s no great matter there.

       Ham.

       Why?

       1 Clown. ‘Twill not he seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he.

       Ham.

       How came he mad?

       1 Clown. Very strangely, they say.

       Ham.

       How strangely?

       1 Clown. Faith, e’en with losing his wits.

       Ham.

       Upon what ground?

       1 Clown. 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 Clown. 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 Clown. 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 skull now; this skull hath lain in the earth three-and-twenty years.

       Ham.

       Whose was it?

       1 Clown. A whoreson, mad fellow’s it was: whose do you think it was?

       Ham.

       Nay, I know not.

       1 Clown.

       A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! ‘a pour’d a flagon of

       Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick’s

       skull, the king’s jester.

       Ham.

       This?

       1 Clown. E’en that.

       Ham. Let me see. [Takes the skull.] 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 kiss’d 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’ the earth?

       Hor.

       E’en so.

       Ham.

       And smelt so? Pah!

       [Throws down the skull.]

       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 bung-hole?

       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 into 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 Caesar, dead and turn’d to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. O, that that 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 Ophelia,

       Laertes, and Mourners following; King, Queen, their Trains, &c.]

       The queen, the courtiers: who is that they follow?

       And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken

       The corse they follow did with desperate hand

       Fordo it own life: ‘twas of some estate.

       Couch we awhile and mark.

       [Retiring with Horatio.]

       Laer.

       What ceremony else?

       Ham.

       That is Laertes,

       A very noble youth: mark.

       Laer.

       What ceremony else?

       1 Priest.

       Her obsequies have been as far enlarg’d

       As we have warranties: 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 allowed her virgin rites,

       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

       To sing a requiem and such rest to her

      

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