Clown sings.
A pick-axe and a spade, a spade,
For,—and a shrouding sheet!
O, a pit of clay for to be made
For such a guest is meet.
Ham.
There's another: why may not that be the scull
of a lawyer? where be his quiddits now? his quillets?
his cases? his tenures, and his tricks? why does he suffer
this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with
a dirty shovel, 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 statutes, 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, than the
length and breadth of a pair of indentures? the very conveyances
of his lands will hardly lye in this box; and
must the inheritor himself have no more? ha?
-- 348 --
Hor.
Not a jot more, my lord.
Ham.
Is not parchment made of sheep-skins?
Hor.
Ay, my lord, and of calve-skins too.
Ham.
They are sheep and calves that seek out assurance
in that. I will speak to this fellow: Whose Grave's
this, Sirrah?
Clown.
Mine, Sir—
O, a pit of clay for to be made
For such a Guest is meet.
Ham.
I think, it be thine, indeed; for thou liest in't.
Clown.
You lie 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 dost lie in't, to be in't, and say, 'tis thine;
'tis for the dead, not for the quick, therefore thou ly'st.
Clown.
'Tis a quick lie, Sir, 'twill away again from
me to you.
Ham.
What man dost 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, rest her
soul, she's dead.
Ham.
How absolute 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 so picked, that the toe of the peasant comes
so near the heel of our courtier, he galls his kibe. How
long hast 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 since?
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 sent into England.
Ham.
Ay, marry, why was be sent into England?
Clown.
Why, because he was mad; he shall recover
his wits there; or if he do not, it's no great matter there.
Ham.
Why?
-- 349 --
Clown.
'Twill not be seen in him; there the men are
as mad as he.
Ham.
How came he mad?
Clown.
Very strangely, they say.
Ham.
How strangely?
Clown.
Faith, e'en with losing his wits.
Ham.
Upon what ground?
Clown.
Why, here, in Denmark. I have been sexton
here, man and boy, thirty years.
Ham.
How long will a man lie i'th' earth ere he rot?
Clown.
I'faith, if he be not rotten before he die, (as we
have many pocky coarses now-a-days, that will scarce
hold the laying in) he will last you some eight year, or
nine year; a tanner will last you nine years.
Ham.
Why he, more than another?
Clown.
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 whorson dead body. Here's
a scull now has lain in the earth three and twenty years.
Ham.
Whose was it?
Clown.
A whorson mad fellow's it was; whose do you
think it was?
Ham.
Nay, I know not.
Clown.
A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! he pour'd
a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same scull,
Sir, was Yorick's scull, the King's jester.
Ham.
This?
Clown.
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: and now how abhorred
in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it.
Here hung those lips, that I have kiss'd I know not how
oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? 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 chap-fallen? 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—Pr'ythee,
Horatio, tell me one thing.
-- 350 --
Hor.
What's that, my Lord?
Ham.
Dost thou think, Alexander look'd o' this fashion
i'th' earth?
Hor.
E'en so.
Ham.
And smelt so, puh?
[Smelling to the Scull.
Hor.
E'en so, my lord.
Ham.
To what base uses we may return, Horatio! why
may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander,
'till he 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 lome;
and why of that lome, 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:
Oh, that that earth, which kept the world in awe,
Should patch a wall, t' expel the winter's flaw!
But soft! but soft a while—here comes the King,
Enter King, Queen, Laertes, and a coffin, with Lords, and Priests, attendant.
The Queen, the Courtiers. What is that they follow,
And with such maimed rites? this doth betoken,
The coarse, they follow, did with desperate hand
Foredo its own life; 'twas of some estate.
Couch We a while, and mark.
Laer.
What ceremony else?
Ham.
That is Laertes, a most noble youth: mark—
Laer.
What ceremony else?
Priest.
Her obsequies have been as far enlarg'd
As we have warranty; her death was doubtful;
And but that great Command o'er-sways the order,
She should in ground unsanctified have lodg'd
'Till the last Trump. For charitable prayers,
Shards, flints, and pebbles, should be thrown on her;
Yet here she is allow'd her virgin rites,
-- 351 --
Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home
Of bell and burial.
Laer.
Must no more be done?
Priest.
No more be done!
We should profane 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 liest howling.
Ham.
What, the fair Ophelia!
Queen.
Sweets to the sweet, farewel!
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 tentimes treble on that cursed head,
Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense
Depriv'd thee of! Hold off the earth a while,
Till I have caught her once more in my arms;
[Laertes 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. [discovering himself.]
What is he, whose griefs
Bear such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow
Conjures the wandring stars, and makes them stand
Like wonder-wounded hearers? this is I,
[Hamlet leaps into the Grave.
Hamlet the Dane.
Laer.
The Devil take thy soul!
[Grappling with him.
Ham.
Thou pray'st not well.
I pr'ythee, take thy fingers from my throat—
For though I am not splenative and rash;
Yet have I in me something dangerous,
Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand.
King.
Pluck them asunder—
-- 352 --
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 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, Leartes.
Queen.
For love of God, forbear him.
Ham.
Come, shew me what thou'lt do.
Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't fast? woo't tear thy self?
Woo't drink up Eisel, eat a crocodile?(69) note
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,
-- 353 --
Singeing his pate against the burning Zone,
Make Ossa like a wart! nay, an thou'lt mouth,
I'll rant as well as thou.
Queen.
This is meer madness;
And thus a while the Fit will work on him:
Anon, as patient as the female dove,
When that 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; a dog will have his day.
[Exit.
King.
I pray you, 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.
An hour of quiet shortly shall we see;
'Till then, in patience our proceeding be.
[Exeunt.
Lewis Theobald [1733], The works of Shakespeare: in seven volumes. Collated with the Oldest Copies, and Corrected; With notes, Explanatory and Critical; By Mr. Theobald (Printed for A. Bettesworth and C. Hitch [and] J. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11201].
