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 meet.
Ham.
There's another: why might not that be the Scull
of a Lawyer? where be his Quiddits now? his Quillets?
-- 2451 --
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?
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,
Sir?
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, and yet it is mine.
Ham.
Thou dost lie in't, to be in't, and say 'tis thine,
'tis for the dead, and 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 follow us: by the Lord, Horatio,
these three years I have taken note of it, the Age is grown
so picked, and the toe of the Peasant comes so near the heel
of our Countier, he galls his Kibe. How long hast thou
been a Grave-maker?
-- 2452 --
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 the very day that young Hamlet was born, he that was
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, it's no great matter there.
Ham.
Why?
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 e'er he rot?
Clown.
I'faith, if he be not rotten before he dye, (as
we have many pocky Coarses now adays, 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 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: this Scull has lain in the Earth three and twenty
Years.
Ham.
Whose was it?
Clown.
A whoreson 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, a pour'd
a Flagon of Rhenish on my Head once. This same Scull,
Sir, this same Scull, Sir, was Yorick's Scull, the King's Jester.
Ham.
This?
Clown.
E'en that.
Ham.
Let me see. Alas poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio,
a Fellow of infinite Jest; of most excellent fancy, he hath
-- 2453 --
born me on his back a thousand times: And how abhorred
my imagination is now, 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 Gambals? Your Songs? Your
flashes of Merriment that were wont to set the Table on a
Roar? No one now to mock your own Jeering? Quite
chop 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. Prithee, Horatio, tell me
one thing.
Hor.
What's that, my Lord?
Ham.
Dost thou think Alexander look'd o'this fashion
it'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
e 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
into 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! aside—here comes the King.
Enter King, Queen, Laertes, and a Coffin, with Lords and Priests Attendant.
The Queen, the Courtiers. What is't that they follow,
And with such maimed Rights? This doth betoken,
The Coarse they follow, did with desperate hand
Fore-do it's own Life; 'twas some Estate.
Couch we a while, and mark.
Laer.
What Ceremony else?
Ham.
That is Laertes, a very noble Youth: Mark—
Laer.
What Ceremony else?
-- 2454 --
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 Trumpet. For charitable Prayer,
Shards, Flints, and Pebbles, should be thrown on her;
Yet here she is allowed her Virgin Rites,
Her Maiden strewments, and the bringing home
Of Bell and Burial.
Laer.
Must there no more be done?
Priest.
No more be done:
We should prophane the service of the dead,
To sing sage 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 thee sweet, farewell,
I hop'd thou woul'dst have been my Hamlet's Wife;
I thought thy Bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet Maid,
And not t'have strew'd thy Grave.
Laer.
O terrible wooer!
Fall tentimes treble woes on that curs'd 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,
To o'er-top old Pelion, or the skyish head
Of blue Olympus.
Ham.
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.
-- 2455 --
Ham.
Thou pray'st not well,
I prithee take thy fingers from my throat—
Sir, though I am not spleenative and rash,
Yet have I something in me dangerous,
Which let thy wiseness fear. Away thy hand.
King.
Pluck them asunder—
Queen.
Hamlet, Hamlet—
Gen.
Good my Lord be quiet.
[The Attendants part them.
Ham.
Why, I will fight with him upon his 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.
Oh he is mad, Laertes.
Queen.
For love of God forbear him.
Ham.
Come shew me what thou'lt do.
Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't tear thy self?
Woo't drink up Esile, eat a Crocodile?
I'll do't. Do'st thou come hither to whine;
To out-face me with leaping into 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
Sindging his pate against the burning Zone,
Make Ossa like a wart. Nay, and thou'lt mouth,
I'll rant as well as thou.
King.
This is mere madness;
And thus a while the fit will work on him:
Anon as patient as the female Dove,
When that her golden Cuplet 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, and Dog will have his day.
[Exit.
King.
I pray you good Horatio, wait upon him.
Strengthen your patience in our last Nights Speech
[To Laertes.
We'll put the matter to the present push.
Good Gertrude set some watch over your Son,
-- 2456 --
This Grave shall have a living Monument:
An Hour of quiet shortly shall we see;
'Till then in patience our proceeding be.
[Exeunt.
Charles Gildon [1709–1710], The works of Mr. William Shakespear; in six [seven] volumes. Adorn'd with Cuts. Revis'd and Corrected, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By N. Rowe ([Vol. 7] Printed for E. Curll... and E. Sanger [etc.], London) [word count] [S11401].
