Clown sings.
A pick-axe, and a spade, a spade,
For—and a shrowding sheet:
O, a pit of clay for to be made
For such a guest is meet4 note
.
Ham.
There's another: Why may not that be
the scull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddits5 note
now,
his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks?
why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock
-- 378 --
him about the sconce6 note
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 fines7 note,
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 lie in this
box; and must the inheritor himself have no more?
ha?
Hor.
Not a jot more, my lord.
Ham.
Is not parchment made of sheep-skins?
Hor.
Ay, my lord, and of calves-skins too.
Ham.
They are sheep, and calves, which seek out
assurance in that8 note. 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 ly'st
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.
-- 379 --
Ham.
Thou dost lie in't, to be in't, and say it is
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
9 note
by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By the
lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken note
of it; 1 note
the age is grown so picked, that the toe of
the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier,
-- 380 --
he galls his kibe.—How long hast thou been a grave-maker?
Clown.
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?
Clown.
Cannot you tell that? every fool can tell
that: It was that very day that young Hamlet was
born; 9Q1206 he that is mad, and sent into England.
Ham.
Ay, marry, why was he sent into England?
Clown.
Why, because he was mad: he shall recover
his wits there; or, if he do not, 'tis no great
matter there.
Ham.
Why?
Clown.
'Twill not be seen in him there; 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' the earth ere he
rot?
Clown.
'Faith, if he be not rotten before he die,
(as we have many pocky corses 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 year.
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 whoreson dead
body. Here's a scull now has lain you i'the earth
three-and-twenty years.
Ham.
Whose was it?
Clown.
A whoreson mad fellow's it was; Whose
do you think it was?
-- 381 --
Ham.
Nay, I know not.
Clown.
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?
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 abhorr'd 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 on a roar? Not
one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?
Now get you to my lady's chamber1 note, 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.
Hor.
What's that, my lord?
Ham.
Dost thou think, Alexander look'd o' this
fashion i' the earth?
Hor.
E'en so.
Ham.
And smelt so? pah!
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 loam; And why of that loam, whereto
he was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel?
-- 382 --
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 to expel the 2 note
winter's flaw!
But soft! but soft, aside;—Here comes the king,
Enter King, Queen, Laertes, the corpse of Ophelia, with Lords and Priests attending.
The queen, the courtiers: Who is this they follow?
And with such 3 notemaimed rites! This doth betoken,
The corse, they follow, did with desperate hand
Fordo its own life4 note
. 'Twas of 5 notesome estate:
Couch we a while, and mark.
Laer.
What ceremony else?
Ham.
That is Laertes,
A very noble youth: Mark.
Laer.
What ceremony else?
6 notePriest.
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 unsanctify'd have lodg'd
'Till the last trumpet; for charitable prayers,
Shards, flints, and pebbles, should be thrown on her:
-- 383 --
Yet here she is 7 note
allow'd her virgin crants,
Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home
8 noteOf bell and burial.
Laer.
Must there no more be done?
Priest.
No more be done;
We should profane the service of the dead,
9 noteTo sing a requiem, and such rest to her
As to peace-parted souls.
Laer.
Lay her i' the 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!
[Scattering flowers.
I hop'd, thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife;
I thought, thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid,
-- 384 --
And not have strew'd thy grave.
Laer.
O, treble woe
Fall ten times 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 mine arms:
[Laertes leaps into the grave.
Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead;
'Till of this flat a mountain you have made,
To o'er-top old Pelion, or the skyish head
Of blue Olympus.
Ham. [advancing]
What is he, whose grief
Bears 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 splenetive and rash,
Yet have I in me something dangerous,
Which let thy wisdom fear: Hold off thy hand.
King.
Pluck them asunder.
Queen.
Hamlet, Hamlet!
1 noteAll.
Gentlemen,—
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.
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.
-- 385 --
Queen.
For love of God, forbear him.
Ham.
Shew me what thou'lt do:
Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't fast? woo't tear thyself?
2 note
Woo't drink up Esil? eat a crocodile?
-- 386 --
I'll do't.—Dost thou come here 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 Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou'lt mouth,
I'll rant as well as thou.
Queen.
This is mere madness 9Q1207:
And thus a while the fit will work on him;
Anon, as patient as the female dove,
3 note
When that her golden couplets are disclos'd,
His silence will sit drooping.
-- 387 --
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, and 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:
An hour of quiet shortly4 note shall we see;
'Till then in patience our proceeding be.
[Exeunt.
Samuel Johnson [1778], The plays of William Shakspeare. In ten volumes. With the corrections and illustrations of various commentators; to which are added notes by Samuel Johnson and George Steevens. The second edition, Revised and Augmented (Printed for C. Bathurst [and] W. Strahan [etc.], London) [word count] [S10901].
