1st Clo. What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?

2nd Clo. The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.

1st Clo. I like thy wit well, in good faith; the gallows does well: but how does it well? it does well to those that do ill: now thou dost ill, to say the gallows is built stronger than the church: argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To't again; come.

2nd Clo. Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?

1st Clo. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.

2nd Clo. Marry, now I can tell.

1st Clo. To't.

2nd Clo. Mass, I cannot tell.

Enter HAMLET and HORATIO, at a distance.

1st Clo. Cudgel thy brains no more about it; for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating: and when you are asked this question next, say, a grave-maker; the houses that he makes, last till doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan, and fetch me a stoup of liquor. [Exit 2nd Clown.

1st Clown digs, and sings.

In youth, when I did love, did love,

Methought it was very sweet,

To contract, O, the time, for, ah, my behove, O, methought there was nothing meet.

Ham. Has this fellow no feeling of his business? he sings at grave-making.

Hor. Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.

Ham. "Tis e'en so: the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.

1st Clown sings.

But age, with his stealing steps,
Hath clawed me in his clutch,
And hath shipped me into the land,
As if I had never been such.

[Throws up a skull.

Ham. That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jawbone, that did the first

murder! This might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o'erreaches; one that would circumvent God; might it not?

Hor. It might, my lord.

Ham. Or of a courtier; which could say, "Good-morrow, sweet lord! How dost thou, good lord?" This might be my lord Such-a-one, that praised my lord Such-a-one's horse, when he meant to beg it; might it not?

Hor. Ay, my lord.

Ham. Why, e'en so: and now my lady Worm's; chapless, and knocked about the mazzard with a sexton's spade: here's fine revolution, an we had the trick to see 't! Did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at loggats with them? mine ache to think on 't.

1st 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.

[Throws up a skull.

Is

Ham. There's another: why may not that be the skull 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? Humph! This fellow might be in 's time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognisances, his fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries. 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 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 calves'-skins too. Ham. They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow. Whose grave's this, sirrah?

1st Clo. Mine, sir.

Sings.

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.

1st Clo. 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.

1st Clo. 'T will not be seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he.

Ham. How came he mad?

1st Clo. Very strangely, they say. Ham. How strangely?

1st Clo. 'Faith, e'en with losing his wits. Ham. Upon what ground?

1st Clo. 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?

1st Clo. '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?

1st Clo. Why, sir, his hide is so tanned 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 skull now hath lain you i' the earth three-and-twenty years.

Hor. What's that, my lord?

Ham. Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this

fashion i' the earth?

Hor. E'en so.

Ham. And smelt so? pah!

[Throws down the skull.

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 bunghole?

Hor. 'T were 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?

Imperial Cæsar, dead, and turned 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 winter's flaw ! But soft; but soft! aside:-here comes the king,

Enter Priests, &c., in procession; the corpse of OPHELIA; LAERTES, and Mourners, following; KING, QUEEN, their Trains, &c.

The queen, the courtiers: who is this they follow? And with such maiméd rites! This doth betoken, The corse they follow did with desperate hand Foredo its own life. "Twas of some estate: Couch we awhile, and mark.

[Retiring with Horatio. Laer. What ceremony else?

Ham.

That is Laertes,

else?

A very noble youth: mark.

Laer. What ceremony

May violets spring!-I tell thee, churlish priest,
A ministering angel shall my sister be,
When thou liest howling.

Ham.

What, the fair Ophelia !

Queen. Sweets to the sweet: farewell! [Scattering flowers. I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife:

I thought thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid,

And not have strewed thy grave.
O, treble woe

Laer.

Fall ten times treble on that curséd head
Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense
Deprived thee of!-Hold off the earth awhile,
Till I have caught her once more in mine arms:
[Leaps into the grave.

Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead;
Till of this flat a mountain you have made
To o'ertop 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 wondering stars, and makes them

Good my lord, be quiet.

[The Attendants part them, and they come out of the grave.

Ham. Why, I will fight with him

theme,

Until my eyelids will no longer wag.

upon

this

Queen. O my son! what theme? Ham. I loved 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. 'Zounds, shew me what thou 'lt do:
Would't weep? would't fight? would't fast?
would't tear thyself?

Would't drink up Esil? eat a crocodile?
I'll do 't.-Dost thou come here to whine?
To outface me with leaping in her grave?
Be buried quick with her, and so will I:
And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw