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 must the inheritor himself have no more? ha?

Hor. Not a jot more, my Lord.

Ham. Is not parchment made of fheep-skins?

Hor. Ay, my Lord, and of calve-skins too.

Ham. They are sheep and calves that feek out affurance in that. I will fpeak to this fellow: Whofe grave's this, firrah?

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, 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 lieft. 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.

Ham. How abfolute the knave is! we muft fpeak 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 fo picked, that the toe of the peafant comes fo near the heel of our courtier, he galls his kibe. How long haft thou been a grave-maker?

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?

Clown. 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 feen in him, there the men are as mad as he.

Ham. How came he mad?

Clown. Very strangely, they fay.

Ham. How ftrangely?

Clown. 'Faith, e'en with lofing his wits.

Ham. Upon what ground?

Clown. Why, here in Denmark. I have been fexton here, man and boy, thirty years.

Ham. How long will a man lye 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 laft you nine years.

Ham. Why he, more than another?

Clown. 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 flagon 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. Alas poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jeft; of most excellent fancy: he hath born 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 kifs'd I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your fongs? your flashes of merriment that were wont to fet 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 fashion i'th' earth?

Hor. E'en fo.

Ham. And fmelt fo? puh!

Her. E'en fo, my Lord.

ESmelling 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 stopping a bung-hole?

Hor. 'Twere to confider 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 duft; the duft is earth; of earth we make lome, and why of that lome whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel ?

Imperial Cefar dead and turn'd to clay,

Might stop a hole to keep the wind away:

Oh,

Oh, that that earth, which kept the world in awe,
Should patch a wall, t' expel the winter's flaw!
But foft! but foft a while here comes the King,

Enter King, Queen, Laertes, and a coffin, with Lords and
Priests attendant.

The Queen, the courtiers. What is that they follow,
And with fuch maimed rites? this doth betoken,
The coarse they follow did with defperate hand
Fore-do its own life; 'twas of fome eftate.
Couch we a while, and mark.

Laer. What ceremony else?

Ham. That is Laertes, a moft noble youth: mark-
Laer. What ceremony else?

Prieft. Her obfequies have been as far enlarg'd
As we have warranty; her death was doubtful,
And but that great command o'er-fways the order,
She fhould in ground unfanctified have lodg'd
'Till the laft trump. For charitable prayers,
Shards, flints, and pebbles, fhould be thrown on her
Yet here fhe is allow'd her virgin rites,

Her maiden ftrewments, and the bringing home
Of bell and burial.

Laer. Muft no more be done?

Prieft. No more be done :

We should prophane the fervice of the dead,

To fing a Requiem, and fuch reft to her

As to peace-parted fouls.

Laer. Lay her i'th' earth,

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh

May violets fpring! I tell thee, churlish prieft,

A minift'ring angel fhall my fifter be,

When thou ly'ft howling.

Ham. What, the fair Ophelia!

Queen. Sweets to the fweet, farewel!

I hop'd thou would'ft 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,
Whofe wicked deed thy moft ingenious fenfe
Depriv'd thee of! Hold off the earth a while,
'Till I have caught her once more in my arms;

[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 skyifh head Of blue Olympus.

Ham. Difcovering himself.] What is he, whofe griefs Bear fuch an emphafis? whofe phrase of forrow

Conjures the wand'ring ftars, and makes them ftand
Like wonder-wounded hearers? this is I,

Hamlet the Dane.

[Hamlet leaps into the grave.

Laer. The devil take thy foul!
Ham. Thou pray'st not well.

[Grappling with him.

I pr'ythe take thy fingers from my throat
For though I am not fplenetive and rash,
Yet have I in me fomething dangerous,

Which let thy wifdom fear. Hold off thy hand:
King. Pluck them afunder

Queen. Hamlet, Hamlet

Hor. Good my Lord, be quiet.

[The attendants part them.

Ham. Why, I will fight with him upon this theme,

Until my eye-lids will no longer wag.

Queen. Oh my fon! what theme?

Ham. I lov'd Ophelia; forty thousand brothers

Could not with all their quantity of love

Make up my fum. What wilt thou do for her?
King. O he is mad, Laertes.

Queen. For love of God forbear hira.
Ilam. Come fhew me what thou'lt do.

Woo't