Imatges de pÓgina

And gave you such a masterly report,
For art and exercise in your defence,
And for your rapier most especial,

That he cried out, 'twould be a sight indeed,
If one could match you: the scrimers of their nation,
He swore, had neither motion, guard, nor eye,
If you oppos'd them: Sir, this report of his
Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy,
That he could nothing do, but wish and beg
Your sudden coming o'er, to play with you.
Now, out of this,

What, out of this, my
King. Laertes, was your father dear to you?
Or are you like the painting of a sorrow,

A face without a heart?

Why ask you this?



King. Not that I think, you did not love your fa-
But that I know, love is begun by time;
And that I see, in passages of proof,
Time qualifies the spark and fire of it.
There lives within the very flame of love

A kind of wick, or snuff, that will abate it;
And nothing is at a like goodness still;
For goodness, growing to a plurisy,

Dies in his own too-much: That we would do,
We should do when we would; for this would changes,
And hath abatements and delays as many,
As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents;
And then this should is like a spendthrift sigh,
That hurts by easing. But, to the quick o'the ulcer:
Hamlet comes back what would you undertake,
To shew yourself indeed your father's son
More than in words?

To cut his throat i'the church.
King. No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize;
Revenge should have no bounds. But, good Laertes,
Will you do this, keep close within
your chamber:
Hamlet, return'd, shall know you are come home :
We'll put on those shall praise your excellence,
And set a double varnish on the fame
The Frenchman gave you; bring you, in fine, toge-
And wager o'er your heads: he, being remiss, [ther,
Most generous, and free from all contriving,
Will not peruse the foils; so that with ease,
Or with a little shuffling, you may choose
A sword unbated, and, in a pass of practice,
Requite him for your father.

Laer. I will do't: And, for the purpose, I'll anoint my sword. I bought an unction of a mountebank, So mortal, that but dip a knife in it, Where it draws blood, no cataplasm so rare, Collected from all simples that have virtue Under the moon, can save the thing from death, That is but scratch'd withal: I'll touch my point With this contagion; that, if I gall him slightly, It may be death.

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 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 see:
We'll make a solemn wager on your cunnings,—
I ha't.

When in your motion you are hot and dry,
(As make your bouts more violent to that end,)
And that he calls for drink, I'll have preferr'd him
A chalice for the nonce, whereon but sipping,
If he by chance escape your venom'd stuck,
Our purpose may hol' there. But stay, what noise?

Enter QUEEN.

How now, sweet queen

Queen. One woe doth tread upon another's heel, So fast they follow :-Your sister's drown'd, Laertes. Laer. Drown'd! O, where?

Queen. There is a willow grows ascaunt the brook, That shews his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; Therewith fantastic garlands did she make

Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them;
There on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke ;
When down her weedy trophies, and herself,
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
Which time, she chanted snatches of old tunes;
And, mermaid-like, a while they bore her up:
As one incapable of her own distress,

Or like a creature native and indu'd

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.


Alas then, she is drown'd? Queen. Drown'd, drown'd.

Laer. Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears: But yet

It is our trick; nature her custom holds,
The woman will be out.-Adieu, my lord!
Let shame say what it will: when these are gone,

I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze,
But that this folly drowns it.


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


SCENE I.-A Church-Yard.

Enter Two Clowns, with spades, &c.


1 Clo. Is she to be buried in christian burial, that wilfully seeks her own salvation?

2 Clo. I tell thee, she is; therefore make her grave straight: the crowner hath set on her, and finds it christian burial.

1 Clo. How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defence?

2 Clo. Why, 'tis found so.

1 Clo. It must be se offendendo; it cannot be else. For here lies the point: If I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act: and an act hath three branches; it is, to act, to do, and to perform: Argal, she drowned herself wittingly.

2 Clo. Nay, but hear you, goodman delver.

1 Clo. Give me leave. Here lies 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 Clo. But is this law?

1 Clo. Ay, marry is't; crowner's-quest law.

2 Clo. Will you ha' the truth on't? If this had not been a gentlewoman, she should have been buried out of christian burial.

1 Clo. Why, there thou say'st: And the more pity; that great folks shall have countenance in this world to drown or hang themselves, more than their even christian. Come, my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and gravemakers; they hold up Adam's profession.

2 Clo. Was he a gentleman?

1 Clo. He was the first that ever bore arms.

2 Clo. Why, he had none.

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[Throws up a scull, Ham. There's another: Why may not that be the

1 Clo. What, art a heathen? How dost thou un-scull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddits now, his derstand the scripture? The scripture says, Adam digged; Could he dig without arms? I'll put another question to thee: if thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself

2 Clo. Go to.

1 Clo. What is he, that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?

2 Clo. The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.

1 Clo. I like thy wit well, in good faith; the gal

lows 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 Clo. Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?

1 Clo. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke. 2 Clo. Marry, now I can tell.

1 Clo. To't.

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quillits, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? Humph! This fellow might be in's time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, 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 his purchases, and double ones too, than the length fine dirt? will his vouchers vouch him no more of and breadth of a pair of indentures? The very conveyances of his lands will hardly lie 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. Aye, my lord, and of calves-skins too. Ham They are sheep, and calves, which seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow: Whose grave's this, sirrah?

1 Clo. Mine, sir.

O, a pit of clay for to be made

For such a guest



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, 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.

Ham. What woman then?

1 Clo. For none neither.

Ham. Who is to be buried in't?

1 Clo. One that was a woman, sir; but, rest he soul, she's dead.

by the card, or equivocation will undo us. Ham. How absolute the knave is! we must speak 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, be gall 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 re cover his wits there; or, if he do not, 'tis no great

Ham. Why?

Ham. Or of a courtier; which could say, Good-matter there. morrow, sweet lord! How dost thou, good lord? This might be my lord Such-a-one, that praised my lord Such-a-one's horse, when he meant to beg it; might it not?

Hor. Ay, my lord.

Ham. Why, e'en so: and now my lady Worm's; chapless, and knocked about the mazzard with a sexton's spade: Here's fine revolution, an we had the

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; 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?

The 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 crants,
He 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,
As to peace-parted souls.

Lay her i' the earth;And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring!-I tell thee, churlish priest, 1 Clo. A whoreson mad fellow's it was; Whose A minist'ring angel shall my sister be, do you think it was? When thou liest howling. Ham.

Ham. Nay, I know not.


1 Clo. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! he poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. same scull, sir, was Yorick's scull, the king's jester. [Takes the scull.

Ham. This?

1 Clo. E'en that.

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 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 fashes 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?

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.
O, treble woe
Fall ten times treble on that cursed head,
Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense
Depriv'd thee of!-Hold off the earth a while,
Till I have caught her once more in mine arms :
[Leaps into the grave.
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
Of blue Olympus.

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,
[Leaps into the grave.
The devil take thy soul!
[Grappling with him.

Ham. Dost thou think, Alexander looked o' this Hamlet the Dane. fashion i' the earth? Laer.

Hor. E'en so.

Ham. And smelt so? pah! [Throws down the scull.
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 thi-
ther with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it:
As thus; Alexander died, Alexander was buried,
Alexander returned 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
OPHELIA, LAERTES and Mourners following: KING,
QUEEN, their Trains, &c.

The queen, the courtiers: Who is this they follow?
And with such maimed rites! This doth betoken,
The corse, they follow, did with desperate hand
Foredo its own life. 'Twas of some estate:
Couch we a while, and mark. [Retiring with HORATIO.
Laer. What ceremony else?

A very noble youth: Mark.

Laer. What ceremony else?

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That is Laertes,

1 Priest. Her obsequies have been so far enlarg'd As we have warranty Her death was doubtful; And, but that great command o'ersways the order,

Ham. Thou pray'st not well.

I pr'ythee, take thy fingers from my throat;
For, though I am not splenetive and rash,
Yet have I in me something dangerous.
Which let thy wisdom fear: Hold off thy hand.
King. Pluck them asunder.

All. Gentlemen,-

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?
King. O, he is mad, Laertes.

Queen. For love of God, forbear him.
Ham. Zounds, shew me what thou 'lt do:
Woul't weep? woul't fight? woul't fast? woul't tear
Woul't drink up Esil? eat a crocodile ? [thyself!
I'll do't.-Dost thou come here to whine?
To outface me with leaping in her grave?
Be buried quick with her, and so will I :
And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw
Millions of acres on us; till our ground
Singeing his pate against the burning zone,
Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou'lt mouth,
I'll rant as well as thou.

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