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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 doft 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 reft her foul, fhe's

dead.

Ham. How abfolute 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, that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of our courtier, he galls his kibe. How long haft thou been a grave-maker ? Clown. Of all the days i'th' year, I came to't that day that our laft King Hamlet o'ercame Fortinbras.

Ham. How long is that fince?

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 fent into England.

Ham. Ay marry, why was he sent into England?

Clown. Why, because he was mad; he fhall recover his wits there; or if he do not, it's no great matter there.

he.

Ham. Why?

Clown. 'Twill not be seen in him, there the men are as mad as

Ham. How came he mad?

Clown. Very ftrangely, they fay.

Ham. How ftrangely?

Clown. Faith e'en with lofing his wits.

Ham. Upon what ground?

Clown. Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton here,

man and boy, thirty years.

Ham.

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 fome eight year, or nine year; a tanner will last you nine years. Ham. Why he, more than another? Clown. Why Sir, his hide is fo will keep out water a great while. cayer of your whorfon dead body. the earth three and twenty years. Ham. Whofe was it?

tann'd with his trade, that he

And your water is a fore deHere's a fcull now has lain in

Clown. A whorfon mad fellow's it was; whose do you think

it was?

Ham. Nay, I know not.

Clown. A peftilence on him for a mad rogue, he pour❜d a flagon of rhenish on my head once. This fame fcull, Sir, was Yo

rick's fcull, the King's jester.

Ham. This?

Clown. Een that.

Ham. Alas poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jeft; of moft excellent fancy: he hath born me on his back a thousand times: and now how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rifes at it. Here hung those lips that I have kiss'd I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now your gambols? your fongs? 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 chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour fhe must come; make her laugh at that ------Pr'ythee, Horatio, tell me one thing. Hor. What's that, my lord?

Ham. Doft thou think Alexander look'd o" this fashion i'th' earth?

Hor. E'en fo.

Ham.

Ham. And fmelt so, puh?

Hor. E'en fo, my lord.

[Smelling to the Scull.

Ham. To what base uses we may return, Horatio! why may not imagination trace the noble duft of Alexander, 'till he find it stopping a bung-hole?

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Hor. 'Twere to confider too curioufly, to confider fo.

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 duft; 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 Cæfar 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 foft! but soft a while ------ here comes the King,

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Enter King, Queen, Laertes, and a coffin, with Lords and
Priefts attendant.

The Queen, the courtiers. What is that they follow,
And with fuch maimed rights? this doth betoken,
The coarse they follow did with desperate hand
Fore-do its own life; 'twas of some eftate.

Couch we a while, and mark.

Laer. What ceremony else?

Ham. That is Laertes, a most noble youth: mark-
Laer. What ceremony else?

Prieft. Her obfequies 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 fhe is allow'd her virgin rites,

Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home

Of bell and burial.

Laer. Muft no more be done?

Prieft. No more be done:

We should prophane the service of the dead,

To fing a Requiem, and fuch reft to her
As to peace-parted fouls.

Laer. Lay her i'th' earth,

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest,
A ministring angel fhall my fifter be,
When thou lieft 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 duft 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. [difcovering himself.] What is he, whofe griefs
Bear such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow
Conjures the wandring stars, and makes them stand

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Like

Like wonder-wounded hearers? this is I,

Hamlet the Dane.

Laer. The devil take thy foul!
Ham. Thou pray'st not well.

[Hamlet leaps into the grave.

[Grappling with him.

I pr'ythee take thy fingers from my throat
For though I am not fplenative 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 fon! what theme?

Ham. I lov'd Ophelia; forty thousand brothers

Could not with all their quantity of love

Make

fum. What wilt thou do for her?

up my fum.

King. O he is mad, Laertes.

Queen. For love of God forbear him.

Ham. Come fhew me what thou'lt do.

Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't faft? woo't tear thy felf?

Woo't drink up Efill, 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 fo 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 Offa 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

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