Ham.

I think it's thine, indeed; for thou liest in't.

Grave.

You lie out on't, sir, and therefore 'tis not yours: for my part, I do not lie in't, yet it is mine.

Ham.

Thou dost lie in't, to be in't, and say it is thine; 'tis for the dead, and not for the quick; therefore thou liest.

Grave.

'Tis a quick lie, sir; 'twill again from me to you.

Ham.

What man dost thou dig it for?

Grave.

For no man, sir.

Ham.

What woman, then?

Grave.

For none, neither.

Ham.

Who is to be buried in't?

Grave.

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?

Grave.

Of all the days i'th' year, I came to't that day our last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.

Ham.

How long is that since?

Grave.

Cannot you tell that? every 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?

Grave.

Because he was mad; he shall recover his wits there; or if he do not, 'tis no great matter there.

Ham.

Why?

Grave.

'Twill not be seen in him there; they are all as mad as he.

Ham.

How came he mad?

Grave.

Very strangely, they say.

Ham.

How strangely?

Grave.

Faith, e'en with losing his wits.

Ham.

Upon what ground?

Grave.

Why, here, in Denmark; where I have been sexton, man and boy, thirty years.

Ham.

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

Grave.

Faith, if he be not rotten before he die, he will last you some eight, or nine years: a tanner now, will last you nine years.

Ham.

Why he more than another?

Grave.

Why, sir, his hide is so tanned 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 skull now, hath lain i'th' earth, three and twenty years.

Ham.

Whose was it?

Grave.

A whoreson mad fellow's it was; whose do you think it was?

Ham.

Nay, I know not.

Grave.

A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! he poured a flaggon of rhenish on my head, once: this same skull, sir, was Yorick's skull, the King's jester.

Ham.

This?

Grave.

Even that.

Ham.

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him well, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jests; of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back, a thousand times: here hung those lips that I have kissed, I know not how oft. Where be your gibes, now? your jests? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table in a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? Quite chop-fallen! Now get you to my lady's table, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this complexion she must come at last; make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing.

Hor.

What's that, my Lord?

Ham.

Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion, i'th' earth?

Hor.

Even so.

Ham.

And smelt so? pah.

Hor.

Even so, my Lord.

Ham.

To what base uses may we return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till we find it stopping a bung-hole?

Hor.

'Twere to consider 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 dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam; and why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel?

Imperial 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 t'expel the winter's flaw* ^note!

Scene draws, and discovers the King, Queen, Laertes, and Priest, with a Corse.
But soft, but soft a while, here comes the King,
The Queen, and all the court. Who's this they follow,
And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken,
The corse they follow did with desperate hand,
Destroy its own life; 'twere of some estate;
Stand by, a while, and mark.

Laer.
What ceremony, else?

Ham.
That is Laertes, a very noble youth.

Laer.
What ceremony, else?

Priest.
Her obsequies have been as far enlarg'd,
As we have warrantry: her death was doubtful;
And, but that great command o'er-sways the order,
She should in ground unsanctify'd be lodg'd:
For charitable prayers,
Flints and pebbles should be thrown upon her;
Yet here she is allow'd her virgin rites,
Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home,
Of bell and burial* ^note

Laer.
Must there no more be done?

Priest.
No more;
We should prophane the service of the dead,
To sing a Requiem, and such rest to her,
As to peace-parted souls.

Laer.
Lay her i'th' earth;
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh,
May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest,
A ministring angel shall my sister be,
When thou ly'st howling.

Ham.
What, the fair Ophelia!

Queen.
Sweets to the sweet, farewel! [Throws in a garland of 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 double on that cursed head,
Whose wicked deeds depriv'd thee of
Thy most ingenious sense! Hold off the earth, a while,
Till I have caught her once more in my arms: [Leaps into the grave.
Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead,
Till of this flat a mountain you have made,
T' o'er top old Pelion, or the skyish head
Of blue Olympus.

Ham.* ^note
What is he, whose griefs
Bear such an emphasis? Whose phrase of sorrow
Conjures the wand'ring stars, and makes them stand,
Like wonder-wounded hearers? It is I,
Hamlet the Dane. [Leaps into the grave.

Laer.
Perdition catch thee! [Grappling with him.

Ham.
Thou pray'st not well.
I prithee take thy fingers from my throat—
For though I am not splenetive and rash,
Yet have I in me something dangerous,
Which let thy wisdom fear—hold off thy hand.

King.
Pluck them asunder.

Ham.
Why, I'll fight with him upon this theme,
Until my eye-lids will no longer wag.

Queen.
O my son! What theme?

Ham.
I lov'd Ophelia; forty thousand brothers
Could not, with all their quantity of love,
Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?

King.
O, he is mad, Laertes.

Ham.
Shew me what thou wilt do.
Wilt weep! Wilt fight? Wilt fast! Wilt tear thyself?
Wilt drink up eisel† ^note? Eat a crocodile?
I'll do't. Dost thou come hither, but to whine?
To out-face me with leaping in her grave?

Be bury'd quick with her; and so will I.
And if thou prate of mountains, let them throw
Millions of acres on us, till our ground,
Singing his pate against the burning zone,
Make Ossa like a wart! nay, and 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 first her golden couplets are disclos'd,
His silence will sit 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 thee, good Horatio, wait upon him. [Exit Hor.
Strengthen your patience in our last night's speech. [To Laertes.
We'll put the matter to the present push.
Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son.
This grave shall have a living monument. [Exeunt. Enter Hamlet and Horatio.

Ham.
So much for this.
Do you remember all the circumstance?

Hor.
Remember it, my Lord?* ^note Enter Osrick.† ^note

Osr.
Your Lordship is right welcome back to Denmark.

Ham.
I humbly thank you, sir.
Dost know this waterfly?

Hor.
No, my good Lord.

Ham.

Thy state is the more gracious; for 'tis a vice to know him.

Osr.

Sweet Lord, if your Lordship were at leisure, I should impart a thing to you, from his Majesty.

Ham.

I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit; your bonnet to its right use; 'tis for the head.

Osr.

I thank your Lordship, 'tis very hot.

Ham.

No, believe me, it is very cold; the wind is northerly.

Osr.

It is indifferent cold, my Lord, indeed.

Ham.

But yet, methinks, it is very sultry and hot; or my complexion—

Osr.

Exceedingly, my Lord, it is very sultry, as 'twere, I cannot tell how—my Lord, his Majesty bid me signify unto you, that he has laid a great wager, on your head: sir, this is the matter—

Ham.

I beseech you, sir, remember.

Osr.

Nay, good my Lord, for my ease.—Sir, here is newly come to court Laertes; believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most excellent differences, of very soft society, and great shew: indeed, to speak feelingly of him, he is the very card or kalendar of gentry; for you shall find in him the substance of what part a gentleman would see.

Ham.

What imports the nomination of this gentleman?

Osr.

Of Laertes?

Ham.

Of him, sir.

Osr.

You are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is.

Ham.

I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in excellence; for to know a man well, were to know himself.

Osr.

I mean, sir, for his weapon.

Ham.

What's his weapon?

Osr.

Single rapier. The King, sir, hath wager'd with him six Barbary

horses, against the which he has impawn'd, as I take it, six French rapiers and poniards, with their assigns, as girdle, hanger, and so—three of the carriages are very dear to fancy, very responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of very liberal conceit.

Ham.

What call you the carriages?

Osr.

The carriages, sir, are the hangers.

Ham.

The phrase would be more germain to the matter, if we carry'd cannon by our sides.

Osr.

The king hath laid, sir, that in a dozen passes between yourself and him, he shall not exceed you three hits; he hath laid twelve to nine, and it would come to immediate trial, if your Lordship would vouchsafe the answer.

Ham.

How if I answer no?

Osr.

I mean, my Lord, the opposition of your person in trial.

Ham.

Sir, I will walk here in the hall; if it please his Majesty, it is the breathing time of the day with me; let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and the King hold his purpose, I will win for him if I can; if not, I shall gain nothing but my shame, and the odd hits.

Osr.

Shall I deliver it so?

Ham.

To this effect, sir, after what flourish your nature will.

Osr.

I commend my duty to your Lordship.

Hor.

You will lose, my Lord.

Ham.

I do not think so; since he went into France, I have been in continual practice; I shall win at the odds. Thou would'st not think how ill all's here, about my heart; but it is no matter.

Hor.

Nay, good my Lord.

Ham.

It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of boding, as would perhaps trouble a woman.

Hor.

If your mind dislike any thing, obey it: I will forestal their coming hither, and say you are not fit.

Ham.

Not a whit, we defy augury.

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