With this contagion, that if I gall him flightly,
It may be death.

King. Let's further think of this,
Weigh what convenience both of time and means
May fit us to our shape. If this should fail,
And that our drift look'd through our bad performance,
'Twere better not assay'd; therefore this Project
Should have a Back, or second, that might hold,
If this should blast in proof. Soft-let me fee
We'll make a folemn Wager on your Cunnings,
That when in your Motion you are hot and dry,
As make your bouts more violent to the end,
And that he calls for drink; I'll have prepar'd him
A Chalice for the nonce; whereon but fipping,
If he by chance escape your venom'd Tuck,
Our purpose may hold there; how now, sweet Queen?
Enter Queen.

Queen. One Woe doth tread upon another's Heel,
So fast they'll follow: Your Sister's drown'd, Laertes.
Laer. Drown'd! O where?

Queen. There is a Willow grows aslant a Brook,
That thews his hoar leaves in the glaffie Stream:
There with fantastick Garlands did the come,
Of Crow-flowers, Nettles, Daisies, and long Purples,
That liberal Shepherds give a grosser name to,
But our cold Maids do dead Men's Fingers call them:
There on the pendant boughs, her Coronet Weeds
Clambring to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down the weedy Trophies, and her felf,
Fell in the weeping Brook, her Cloaths spread wide,
And Meremaid-like, a while they bear her up,
Which time she chaunted snatches of old Tunes,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a Creature Native, and deduced

Unto that element: But long it could not be,
'Till that her Garments heavy with their drink,
Pull'd the poor Wretch from her melodious lay,
To muddy death.

Laer. Alas then, is she drown'd?

Queen. Drown'd, drown'd.

Laer. Too much of Water haft thou, poor Ophelia,

And therefore I forbid my Tears: But yet
It is our trick, Nature her custom holds,
Let shame say what it will; when these are gone,
The Woman will be out: Adieu, my Lord,
I have a speech of fire that fain would blaze,
But that this folly drowns it.

King. Let's follow, Gertrude :
How much I had to do to calm his Rage?
Now fear I this will give it start again,
Therefore let's follow.

[Exit.

2

[Exeunt.

ACT V. SCENE 1.

SCENE A Church.

Enter two Clowns, with Spades and Mattocks.

1 Clown.

I

S she to be buried in Christian Burial, that wilfully seeks her own Salvation?

2 Clown. I tell thee, she is, and therefore make her Grave straight, the Crowner hath fate on her, and finds it Christian Burial.

1 Clown. How can that be, unless she drowned her felf in her own defence?

2 Clown. Why 'tis found so.

1 Clown. It must be Se offendendo, it cannot be else. For here lyes the point; if I drown my felf wittingly, it argues an Act; and an Act hath three Branches. It is an Act to do, and to perform; argal she drown'd her self wittingly. 2 Clown. Nay, but hear you Goodman Delver.

1 Clown. Give me leave; here lyes the Water, good: here stands the Man, good: If the Man go to this Water, and drown himself; it is will he, nill he, he goes; mark you that: But if the Water come to him, and drown him; he drowns not himself. Argal, he that is not guilty of his own Death, shortens not his own Life.

2. Clown. But is this Law?

A

I Clown.

1 Clown. Ay marry is't, Crowner's Quest Law. 2 Clown. Will you ha' the truth on't: if this had not been a Gentlewoman, she should have been buried out of Christian burial.

I Clown. Why there thou fay'st. And the more pity that great Folk should have countenance in this World to drown or hang themselves, more than other Christians. Come, my Spade; there is no ancient Gentlemen but Gardiners, Ditchers and Grave-makers; they hold up Adam's profession.

2 Clown. Was he a Gentleman?

1 Clown. He was the first that ever bore Arms.

2 Clown. Why, he had none.

I Clown. What, art a Heathen? how dost thou understand the Scripture ? the Scripture says, Adam digg'd; could he dig without Arms? I'll put another Question to thee; if thou answerest me not to the purpose, confefs thy felf

2 Clown. Go to.

I Clown. What is he that builds stronger than either the Mason, the Ship-wright, or the Carpenter?

2 Clown. The Gallows-maker, for that Frame out-lives a thousand Tenants.

I Clown. I like thy wit well in good faith, the Gallows does well; but how does it well? it does well to those that do ill: now thou dost ill to say the Gallows is built stronger than the Church; Argal, the Gallows may do well to thee. To't again, Come.

2 Clown. Who builds stronger than a Mason, a Ship-wright, or a Carpenter?

1 Clown. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.

2 Clown. Marry, now I can tell. I Clown. To't.

2 Clown. Mass, I cannot tell.

Enter Hamlet and Horatio at a distance.

1 Clown. Cudgel thy Brains no more about it; for your dull Ass will not mend his pace with beating; and when you are ask'd this question next, say a Grave-maker: the Houses that he makes, last 'till Doom's-day: go, get thee to Yaughan, fetch me a stoup of Liquor.

[Exit 2 Clown.

He

He digs and Sings.

In Youth when I did love, did love,
Methought it was very sweet,
To contract O the time for a my behove,
O methought there was nothing meet.

Ham. Has this Fellow no feeling of his business, that he fings at Grave-making?

Hor. Custom hath made it in him a property of eafinefs. Ham. 'Tis e'en so; the hand of little imployment hath the daintier sense.

Clown fings.

But Age with his stealing steps,

Hath caught me in his clutch:
And hath shipped me intill the Land,
As if I never had been fuch.

Ham. That Scull 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: It might be the Pate of a Politician which this Ass o'er-offices; one that could circumvent God, might it not ?

Hor. It might, my Lord.

Ham. Or of a Courtier, which could say, Good Morrow, fweet Lord; how doft thou, good Lord? this might be my Lord such a one, that prais'd my Lord such a ones Horse, when he meant to beg it; might it not?

Hor. Ay, my Lord.

Ham. Why e'en so: and now 'tis my Lady Worm's, Chap less, and knockt about the Mazzard with a Sexton's Spade, here's fine Revolution, if we had the trick to fee't. Did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at Loggers with 'em? mine ake to think on't.

Ham. There's another: why might not that be the Scull

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 Sconce with a dirty Shovel, 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 Statures, 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 must the Inheritor himself have no more? ha?

Hor. Not a jot more, my Lord.

Ham. Is not Parchment made of Sheep-skins?
Hor. Ay my Lord, and of Calve-skins too.

Ham. They are Sheep and Calves that seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this Fellow: whose Grave's this,

Sir?

Clown. Mine, Sir

O a pit of Clay for to be made,
For fuch a Guest is meet.

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, and yet it is mine.

Ham. Thou doft lie in't, to be in't, and say 'tis thine, 'tis for the dead, and not for the quick, therefore thou ly'st. Clown. 'Tis a quick lie, Sir, 'twill away again from me

to you.

Ham. What Man dost 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?

1

Clown. One that was a Woman, Sir; but rest her Soul, she's dead.

Ham. How abfolute the Knave is? we must speak by the Card, or equivocation will follow us: by the Lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken note of it, the Age is grown so picked, and the toe of the Peasant comes to near the heel of our Countier, he galls his Kibe. How long haft thou been a Grave-maker?

Clown.