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Ham. What woman then ?
Graved. One, that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul! she's dead.
Ham. How absolute the knave is! we must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us.—How long hast thou been a grave-maker? Graved. Of all
the days i' the year, I came to't that day that our last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.
Ham. How long is that since ?
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 ?
Grared. Why, because he was mad : he shall recover his wits there; or, if he do not, 'tis no great matter there.
Graved. 'Twill not be seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he.
Ham. How came he mad?
Graved. 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?
Gravd. 'Faith, if he be not rotten before he die, he will last you some eight year, or nine year: a tanner will last
Graved. Why, sir, his hide is so tann'd 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 has lain you i' the earth three and twenty years:
Ham. Whose was it?
Graved. A whoreson mad fellow's it was :- -Whose do you
think it was?
Graved. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! he pour'd a flaggon of Rhenish on my head once. This same scull, sir, was Yorick's scull, the king's jester. Ham. This?
[Taking the Scull. Graved. 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: here hung those lips, that I have kiss'd I know not how oft; and now, how abhorr'd in my imagination it is! Where be your gibes now ? your gambols ? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar ? not one now, to mock your own grinning ? quite chap fall’n? 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.-'Prythee, Horatio, tell me one thing.
Hor. What's that, my lord ?
Ham. Dost thou think, Alexander look'd o’this fashion i' the earth?
Hor. E'en so.
Hor. "Twere to consider too curiously, to consider
so, my lord.
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 dust; the dust is, earth; of earth we make loam : And why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beerbarrel?
Imperious Cæsar, dead, and turn'd to clay, Might stop a hole, to keep the wind away: O, that that earth, which kept the world in awe, Should patch a wall to expel the winter's flaw !— [A Bell tolls. the
-Aside; here comes
But soft! but soft! king,
The queen, the courtiers:-Who is this they follow?
And with such maimed rites!-This doth betoken,
Enter FRIAR, KING, QUEEN, LAERTES, MARCELLUS, BERNARDO, FRANCISCO, GENTLEMEN, LaDIES, &c. attending the Corpse of OPHELIA.
Laer. What ceremony else?
Laer. What ceremony else?
Friar. Her obsequies have been as far enlarg'd As we have warranty: Her death was doubtful; And, but that great command o'ersways the order, She should in ground unsanctified have lodg'd Till the last trumpet; for charitable prayers, Shards, flints, and pebbles, should be thrown on
Yet here she is allow'd her virgin crants,
Laer. Must there no more be done ?
Friar. No more be done!
Laer. Lay her i' the earth ;-
[They put the Coffin in the Grave.
Ham. What, the fair Ophelia !
[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.
Laer. O, treble woe Fall ten times treble on that cursed head, Whose wicked deed the most ingenious sense Depriv'd thee of ! [The GRAVEDIGGER about to throw the Earth into
the Grave. Hold off the earth a while, Till I have caught her once more in mine arms :
(LAERTES leaps into the Grade. dust
upon the quick and dead;
[Exit GRAVEDIGGER. Ham. (Advancing.] What is he whose grief Bears such an emphasis ? Whose phrase of sorrow
Now pile your
Conjures the wand'ring stars, and makes them stand
Laer. The devil take thy soul!
[Springing out of the Grave, and seizing HAMLET.
Ham. Thou pray'st not well.
I pr'ythee, take thy fingers from my throat;
[They are parted by HORATIO and MARCELLUS.
Queen. Hamlet, Hamlet!
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
Ham. Come, show me what thou❜lt do:
Woul't weep? woul't fight? woul't fast? woul't tear thyself?
I'll do't.-Dost thou come here to whine?
Queen. This is mere madness:
And thus a while the fit will work on him;