Clown fings. But age, with his fealing fleps, Ham. That fcull had a tongue in it, and could fing once; how the knave jowles it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jaw-bone, that did the first murther! this might be the pate of a politician, which this afs o'eroffices s; one that would circumvent God, might it not? Hor. It might, my lord. Ham. Or of a courtier, which could fay, goodmorrow, fweet lord; how doft thou, good lord? this might be my lord fuch a one, that prais'd my lord fuch a one's horfe, when he meant to beg it; might it not? Hor. Ay, my lord. Ham. Why, e'en fo: and now my lady Worm's, chaplefs, and knockt about the mazzard with a fexton's fpade. Here's a fine revolution, if we had the trick to fee't. Did thefe bones coft no more the breeding, but to play at loggats with 'em? mine ake to think on't. Clown fings. A pick-axe and a spade, a fpade, Ham. There's another: why may not that be the fcull of a lawyer? where be his quiddits now? his quillets? his cafes? his tenures, and his tricks? why does he fuffer this rude knave now to knock him about the fconce with a dirty fhovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? hum! this fellow might be in's time a great buyer of land, with his ftatutes, 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 lye in this box; and muft 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 fheep and calves that feek out affurance in that. I will speak to this fellow: Whose Grave's this, Sirrah? Clown. Mine, Sir O, a pit of clay for to be made Ham. I think, it be thine, indeed, for thou lieft in't. Clown. 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 doft lie in't, to be in't, and fay, 'tis thine 'tis for the dead, not for the quick, therefore thou ly'ft. 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 muft fpeak 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 fo picked, that the toe of the peafant comes fo near the heel of our courtier, he galls his kibe. How long hast thou been a grave-maker ? Clown. 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 fent into England? Clorun. Why, because he was mad; he fhall recover his wits there; or, if he do not, it's no great matter there. Ham. Why? Clown. 'Twill not be seen in him; there the men are as mad as he. Ham. How came he mad? Clown. Very strangely, they fay. Ham. How strangely? Clown. Faith, e'en with lofing his wits. Clown. Why, here, in Denmark. I have been fexton here, man and boy, thirty years. 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 coarfes now-a-days, that will fcarce 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? Ham. Why, Sir, his hide is fo tann'd with his trade, that he will keep out water a great while. And your water is a fore decayer of your whorfon dead body. Here's a fcull now has lain in the earth three and twenty years. Ham. Whofe was it? Clown. A whorfon mad fellow's it was; whofe do you think it was? Ham. Nay, I know not. Clown. A peftilence on him for a mad rogue! he pour'd a flaggon of Rhenifh on my head once. This fame fcull, Sir, was Yorick's fcull, the King's jefter. Ham. This ? Clown. E'en that. Ham. Ham. Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jeft; of moft excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thoufand times: and now how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rifes at it. Here hung thofe 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 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. Doft thou think, Alexander look'd o' this fashi on i'th' earth? Hor. E'en fo. Ham. And fmelt fo, puh? Hor. E'en fo, my lord.. [Smelling to the Scull. Ham. To what bafe ufes we may return, Horatio! why may not imagination trace the noble duft of Alexander, 'till he find it ftopping a bung-hole? Hor. "Twere to confider too curioufly, to confider fo. Ham. No, faith, not a jot: But to follow him thither with modefty enough, and likelihood to lead it; as thus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth to duft; the duft is earth; of earth we make lome; and why of that lome, whereto he was converted, might they not top a beer-barrel ? Imperial Cefar, dead and turn'd to clay, Might ftop a hole to keep the wind away: Oh, that that earth, which kept the world in awe, here comes the King, Enter King, Queen, Laertes, and a caffin, with Lords, and Priefts, attendant. The Queen, the Courtiers. What is that they follow, Couch Couch we a while, and mark. Ham. That is Laertes, a moft noble youth: mark Prief. Her obfequies have been fo far enlarg'd Her maiden-ftrewments, and the bringing home Laer. Muft no more be done? We should profane the fervice of the dead, Laer. Lay her i'th' earth; And from her fair and unpolluted flesh When thou lieft howling. Ham. What, the fair Ophelia ! Queen. Sweets to the fweet, farewel! I hop'd, thou fhould't have been my Hamlet's wife; I thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, fweet maid, And not have ftrew'd thy Grave. Laer. O treble woe Fall ten times treble on that curfed head, [Laertes leaps into the Grave. Now pile your duft upon the quick and dead, 'Till of this flat a mountain you have made, -T' o'er top old Pelion, or the skyish head Of blue Olympus. Ham. [difcowering bimfelf.] What is he, whofe griefs Bear fuch an emphafis? whofe phrase af forrow Conjures |