"Till the last Trump. For charitable prayers,
Shards, flints, and pebbles, fhould be thrown on her;
Yet here the is allow'd her virgin rites,

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

Laer, Muft no more be done?

Priest. No more be done!

We should profane the service 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 priest,
A miniftring angel fhall my fifter be,
When thou lieft howling.

Ham. What, the fair Ophelia!

Queen. Sweets to the fweet, farewel!

I hop'd, thou shouldft have been my Hamlet's wife;
I thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, fweet maid,
And not have strew'd thy grave.

Laer. O treble woe

Fall ten times treble on that curfed head,
Whose wicked deed thy moft ingenious fenfe
Depriv'd thee of! Hold off the earth awhile,
'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, To'er-top old Pelion, or the skyish head Of blue Olympus,

Ham. [difcovering himfelf.] What is he, whofe griefs Bear fuch an emphafis? whofe phrase of forrow Conjures the wandring 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'ythee, take thy fingers from my throat-
For though I am not fplenetive and rash;

Yet

Yet have I in me fomething dangerous,

Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand.
King. Pluck them asunder-
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 him.

Ham. Come, fhew me what thou'lt do.

Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't faft? woo't tear thyself? Woo't drink up Eifel, eat a crocodile? (69)

I'll

(69) Would drink up Efill, eat a crocodile?] This word has thro' all the editions been diftinguish'd by Italick characters, as if it were the proper name of fome river: and fo, I dare fay, all the editors have from time to time understood it to be. But then this must be fome river in Denmark; and there is none there fo call'd; nor is there any near it in name, that I know of, but fel, from which the province of Over-yffell derives its title in the German Flanders. Befides, Hamlet is not propofing any impoffibilities to Laertes, as the drinking up a river would be; but he rather feems to mean, Wilt thou refolve to do things the most shocking and diftafteful to human nature? and, behold, I am as refolute. I am perfwaded, the Poet wrote;

Will drink up Eifel, eat a crocodile ?

i.e. Wilt thou fwallow down large draughts of Vinegar? The propo fition, indeed, is not very grand; but the doing it might be as dif tafteful and unfavoury, as eating the flesh of a crocodile. And now there is neither an impoffibility, nor an anticlimax: and the lowness of the idea is in fome measure remov'd by the uncommon term. CHAUCER has it in his Romaunt of the Rose.

So evil-hew'd was her coloure,

Her femed t' have livid in langoure;
She was like thing for hungir ded,
That lad her life onely by bred

Knedin with eifel strong and egre;
And thereto fhe was lene and megre.

But leaft this authority should be thought of too long a date, and the word to have become obsolete in our Author's time, I'll produce a paf

Lage

I'll do't. Do'st thou come hither but to whine?
To out-face 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 Oa like a wart! nay, an thou'lt mouth,
I'll rant as well as thou.

Queen. This is mere madness;

And thus a while the fit will work on him:
Anon, as patient as the female dove,
When that her golden couplets are difclos'd,
His filence will fit drooping.

Ham. Hear you, Sir

What is the reason that you use me thus ?

I lov'd you ever; but it is no matter

Let Hercules himself do what he may,

The cat will mew, the dog will have his day.

[Exit.

King. I pray you, good Horatio, wait upon him,

[Exit Hor.

Strengthen your patience in our laft night's fpeech.

We'll put the matter to the prefent push.
Good Gertrude, fet fome watch over your
This grave fhall have a living monument.
An hour of quiet fhortly fhall we see ;
"Till then, in patience our proceeding be.

[To Laertes.

fon:

[Exeunt.

fage where it is ufed by him felf. In a poem of his, call'd, A Complaint, he thus expreffes himself:

Whilft, like a willing patient, I will drink
Potions of Eifel'gainst my strong infection :
No bitterness, that I will bitter think,
No double penance to correct correction.

So, likewife, in Sir Thomas More's poems.

Remember wherewithal,

How Christ for thee fafted with Eifel and gall.

Earle, acetum, regar; faith SOMNER: and the word is ac knowledg'd by Minshew, Skinner, Blount, &c,