out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow: Whose grave's this, sirrah? O, a pit of clay for to be made [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, and 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. 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 ús. 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. 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. Caunot 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. I 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. Ikam. 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 din,) he will last you some eight year, or nine year: a tanner will tast you mine year. Hum. Why he more than another? 1. Cło. Why, Sir, bis 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. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! he pour'd a flaggon of Rhenish on my head once. This same scull, Sir, was Yorick's scull, King's jester. 1. Clo. E'en that. [Takes the scull. 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 abborr'd 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 inerriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chapfallen? Now get you to my Jady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an iuch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that. - Pr'ythee, Horatio, tell me oue thing. -- Hor. What's that, my Lord? Ham. Dost thou think, Alexander look'd o'this fashion i'the earth? [Throws down the scull. Hor. E'en so, my Lord.. Ham. To what base uses we may return, Ho-ratio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping a bunghole? 3 Ilor. '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 Caesar, dead, and turn'd to clay, 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 coines the King, Enter Priests, &c. in procession; the corpse of OPHELIA, LAERTES and Mourners following it; King, Queen, their Trains, &c. The Queen, the courtiers: Who is this they follow? [Retiring with HORATIO, Laer. What ceremony else? A very noble youth: Mark. 1. Priest. Her obst quies have been fas ar en larg'd As we have warranty: Her death was doubtful; And, but that great command o'ersways the order, She should in ground unsandlify'd 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, 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 Laer. Lay her 'the earth; And from her fair and unpolluted flesh Ham. What, the fair Ophelia ! Queen. Sweets to the sweet: Farewell! [Scattering flowers. I hop'd, thou should'st have been my Iamlet'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, Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead; 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 1, Hamlet the Dane [Leaps into the grave. Laer. The devil take thy soul! [Grappling with him. Ham. Thou pray'st not well. I pr'ythee, take thy fingers from my throat; |