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 ak'd this queftion next, fay, a grave maker. The houfes, he makes, laft 'till dooms-day ; go, get thee to Vaughan, and fetch me a toup of liquor, [Exit 2 Clown. He digs, and fings. In youth when I did love, did love, (67) To contra, ob, the time fo', a, my behove, Ham. Has this fellow no feeling of his bufinefs, that he fings at Grave-making? Hor. Cuftom hath made it to him a property of eafinefs. Ham. 'Tis e'en fo; the hand of little employment< hath the daintier fenfe. Clown fings. But age, with his stealing steps, Ham. That skull 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 murder! this might be the pate of a politician, which this afs o'eroffices; one that would circumvent God, might it not? Hor. It might, my Lord. Ham. Or of a courtier, which could fay, "Good (67) In youth, when I did love, &c.] The three flanza's, fung here by the grave-digger, are extracted, with a flight variation, from a little poem, called, The Aged Lover renounceth Love: written by Henry Howard earl of Surrey, who flourish'd in the reign of King Henry VIII. and who was beheaded in 1547, on a ftrain'd accufation of treafon. " morrow, 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 Wom's chapless, 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. (68) Clown fings. A pick-axe and a Spade, a spade, 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 suffer 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, then the length and breadth of a pair of indentures? the very conveyances of his lands will hardly lie in this box; and muft the inheritor himself have no more? ha? (68) Did thefe bones coft no more the breeding, but to play at loggers with them?] I have reftor'd, from the old copies, the true word, loggats. We meet with it again in Ben Johnson : Now are they toffing of his legs and arms Like loggats at a pear-tree, A Tale of a Tub. What fort of sport this was, I confefs, I do not know, but I find it in the lift of unlawful games, prohibited by a ftatute 33 Henry VIII. cap. ix. § 16. Hor. Hor. Not a jot more, my Lord. Ham. Is not parchment made of sheep-fkins. Ham. They are fheep and calves that feek out affurance in that. I will fpeak to this fellow: Whofe Grave's this, Sirrah? Clown. Mine, Sir. O, a fit of clay for to be made Ham. I think, it be thine, indeed, for thou lièft in't. Clown. You lye 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 lye 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 must speak 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 haft thou been a grave-maker? Clown. Of all the days i'th' year, I came to't that day that our last 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 ? Chwn. Why, because he was mad; he fhall recover K 5 his 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 ftrangely, they say. Ham. How ftrangely? Clown. 'Faith, e'en with lofing his wits. Ham. Upon what ground? Clin. 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 ? Cloun. I'faith, if he be not rotten before he die, (as we have many pocky coarfes now-a-days, that will fcarce hold the lying in) he will laft you fome eight year, or nine year; a tanner will last 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 whorefon dead body. Here's a fcull now has lain in the earth three and twenty years. -Ham. Whofe was it? Clown. A whorefon mad fellow's it was; whofe do you think it was?. Ham. Nay, I know not. This Clowers A peftilence on him for a mad rogue! he pour'd'a flaggon of Rhenifh on my head once. fame fcull, Sir, was Yorick's fcull, the King's jefter. Ham, This? Clown. E'en that. 10 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 thousand 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 flathes of merriment, that were wont to fet the table in a roar? not one now, to mock your own grinning? grinning? quite chap-fallen? now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour fhe must come; make her laugh at thatPr'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? Hr. E'en fo, my Lord. [Smelling to the Skull. 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 curiously, to confider fo. 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 loam; and why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel ? Imperial Cafar, dead and turn'd to clay, Might ftop a hole to keep the wind away: Enter King, Queen, Laertes, and a coffin, with Lords, The Queen, the Courtiers. What is that they follow, Laer. What ceremony elfe? Ham. That is Laertes, a most noble youth: mark---- Prieft. Her obfequics have been fo far enlarg'd K 6 Tili |