The Queen, the courtiers. What is that they follow,
And with such maimed rights? this doth betoken,
The coarse they follow did with desperate hand
Fore-do 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,
Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home
Of bell and burial.

Laer.
Must no more be done?

Priest.
No more be done:
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 liest howling.

Ham.
What, the fair Ophelia!

Queen.
Sweets to the sweet, farewel!
I hop'd thou would'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—

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, Laertes.

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 Esill, eat a crocodile?
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
Sindging his pate against the burning zone,
Make Ossa like a wart! nay, an 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 cuplets 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. [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.

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