Ham. What woman then?

Clow. For none neither.

Ham. Who is to be buried in't?

Clow. One that was a woman fir, but rest her foule fhee's dead.

Ham. How abfolute the knaue is, card, or equiuocation will vndoo vs.

we muft fpeake by the

By the Lord Horatio,

this three yeares I haue tooke note of it, the age is growne fo picked, that the toe of the pefant comes fo neere the heele of the courtier he galls his kybe.

How long haft thou bene a graue-maker?

Clo. Of the dayes i'th yeare I came too't that day that our laft king Hamlet ouercame Fortinbrasse.

Ham. How long is that fince?

Clo. Cannot you tell that? euery foole can tell that, it was that very day that young Hamlet was borne: he that is mad and fent into England.

Ham. I marry why was he fent into England?

Clow. Why because a was mad: a fhall recouer his wits

there, or if a doe not, tis no great matter there.

Ham. Why?

Clow. Twill not be feene in him there, there the are men as mad as hee.

Ham. How came he mad?

Clow. Very ftrangely they fay.

Ham. How ftrangely?

Clow Faith eene with loofing his wits.

Ham. Vpon what ground?

Clow. Why heere in Denmarke: I haue beene fexton heere

man and boy thirty yeares.

Ham. How long will a man lie i'th earth ere he rot?

Glow. Faith if a be not rotten before a die, as we haue many pockie corfes, that will fearce hold the laying in, a will last VOL. IV.

T

you

you fome eight ycare, or nine yeare. A tanner will last you nine yeare.

Ham. Why he more then another?

Clow. Why fir, his hide is fo tand with his trade, that a will keepe out water a great while; and your water is a fore decayer of your whorfon dead body, heer's a fcull now hath lyen you i'th earth 23. yeares.

Ham. Whole was it?

Clow. A whorfon mad fellowes it was, whofe do you think it was?

Ham. Nay I know not.

Clow. A peftilence on him for a mad rogue, a pourd a flagon of renifh on my head once; this fame fkull fir, was fir Yoricks fkull, the kings iefter.

Ham. This?

Clow. Een that.

Ham. Alas poore Yoricke, I knew him Horatio, a fellow of infinite ieft, of moft excelent fancy, hee hath bore me on his backe a thousand times, and now how abhorred in my, imagination it is my gorge rifes at it. Here hung those lyppes that I haue kist I know not how oft: where be your gibes now? your gamboles, your fongs, your flashes of merriment, that were wont to fet the table on a roare, not one now to mocke your owne grinning, quite chopfalne. Now get you to my ladies table, and tell her, let her paint an inch thicke, to this fauour she must come, make her laugh at that.

Prethee Horatio tell me one thing.

Hora. What's that my lord?

Ham. Dooft thou thinke Alexander lookt a this fashion i'th heart?

Hora. Een fo.

Ham. And fmelt fo: pah.

Hora. Een fo my lord.

Hem.

Ham. To what bafe vfes we may returne Horatio? why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till a find it stopping a bunghole?

Hora. Twere to confider too curiously to confider fo.

Ham. No faith, not a iot, but to follow him thether with modeity enough, and likelihood to leade it. Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth to duft, the dust is earth, of earth wee make lome, and why of that lome whereto he was conuerted, might they not ftoppe a bearebarrell?

Imperious Cafar dead, and turn'd to clay,

Might stoppe a hole, to keepe the wind away.
O that that earth which kept the world in awe,
Should patch a wall t'expell the waters flaw.

Enter King Quee. Laertes and the corfe.

But foft, but foft a while, here comes the king,
The queene, the courtiers, who is this they follow?
And with fuch maimed rites? this doth betoken,
The corfe they follow, did with defprat hand
Foredoo it owne life, twas of fome eftate,
Couch we a while and marke.

Laer. What ceremony elfe?

Ham. That is Laertes a very noble youth, make *.
Laer. What ceremony else?

Doct. Her obfequies haue beene as farre inlarg'd
As we haue warranty, her death was doubtfull,
And but that great command ore-fwayes the order,
She should in ground vnfanctified beene lodg'd
Till the laft trumpet: for charitable prayers,
Flints and peebles fhould be throwne on her:
Yet heere she is allow'd her virgin crants,

Her mayden ftrewments, and the bringing home
Of bell and buriall.

Laer. Muft there no more be doone?

Doct. No more be doone.

We should prophane the feruice of the dead,

To fing a requiem and fuch rest to her
As to peace-parted foules.

Laer. Lay her i'th earth,

And from her faire and vnpolluted flesh
May violets fpring: I tell thee churlish priest,
A miniftring angell fhall my fifter be
When thou lyeft howling.

Ham. What, the faire Ophelia.

Quee. Sweets to the fweet, farewell,

I hop't thou should'ft haue beene my Hamlets wife,
I thought thy bride-bed to haue deckt fweet maide,
And not haue ftrew'd thy graue.

Laer. O trebble woe.

Fall tenne times double on that curfed head.
Whose wicked deede thy moft ingenious fence
Depriued thee of, hold off the earth a while,
Till I haue caught her once more in mine armes ;
Now pile your duft vpon the quicke and dead,
Till of this flat a mountaine you haue made
To'retop old Pelion, or the skyesh head

Of blew Olympus.

Ham. What is he whofe griefe

Beares fuch an emphasis, whose phrase of forrow
Coniures the wandring ftarres, and makes them ftand

Like wonder wounded hearers? tis * I

Hamlet the Dane.

Laer. The diuell take thy foule.

#this.

Ham.

Ham. Thou pray'ft not well, .I prethee take thy fingers

from my throat,

For though I am not fpleenatiue rash,

Yet haue I in me fomething dangerous,

Which let thy wifedome feare; hold off thy hand?

King. Plucke them a funder.

Quee. Hamlet, Hamlet.

All. Gentlemen.

Hora. Good my lord be quiet.

Ham. Why, I will fight with him vpon this theame

Vntill my eye-lids will no longer wagge.

Quee. O my fonne, what theame?

Ham. I lou'd Ophelia: forty thousand brothers

Could not with all their quantity of loue

Make vp my fumme. What wilt thou doo for her.

King. O he is mad Laertes.

Quee. For loue of God forbeare him.

Ham. S'wounds fhew me what th'out doe:

Woo't weepe, woo't fight, woo't faft, woo't teare thy felfe,

Woo't drinke vp Efill, eate a crocadile

Ile doo't: dooft come heere to whine?

To out-face me with leaping in her graue,
Be buried quicke with her, and fo will I.
And if thou prate of mountaines, let them throw
Millions of acres on vs, till our ground

Sindging his pate against the burning zone
Make Offa like a wart, nay and thou'lt mouth,
Ile rant as well as thou.

Quee. This is meere madnesse,

And this a while the fit will worke on him,
Anon as patient as the female doe +
When that her golden cuplets are disclosed
His filence will fit drooping.