Clown. Faith, e'en with losing his wits. 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 ere he rot? Clown. I' 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 years. Ham. Why he more than another? Clown. 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 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! he poured a flaggon of Rhenish on my head once (77). This same skull, Sir, was Yorick's skull, the King's jester. (77) The flaggon of Rhenish is to be referred to the explosion of light on the south side of the moon, which is like a flaggon in shape, and is situate over the head of the first clown, as above pointed out. Ham. This ? Clown. Even that. Ham. Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest; of exquisite fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed 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 in a roar? not one now to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen! 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-Pr'ythee Horatio, tell me one thing. Hor. What's that my Lord? Ham. Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i' th' earth? Hor. Even so. Ham. And smelt so ?-puh! [Smelling to the Scull. Enter King, Queen, LAERTES, and a Cofin, with Lords, and Pricsts, allendant. -The Queen, the Courtiers, What is that they follow, And with such maimed rites? this doth betoken The corse they follow did with desperate hand Foredo its own life; 'twas of some estate. Laer. What ceremony else? Ham. That is Laertes, a most noble youth: mark Laer. What ceremony else? Priest. Her obsequies have been so far enlarged As we have warranty; her death was doubtful; And but that great command o'ersways the order, She should in ground unsanctified have lodged 'Till the last trump. For charitable prayers, Shards, flints, and pebbles, should be thrown on her; Yet here she is allowed her virgin rites, [home Her maiden strewments, (78) and the bringing Of bell and burial. Laer. Must no more be done? Priest. No more be done! We should profane the service of the dead (78) The priest has the same prototype, I apprehend, as Hudibras's Cerdon, drawn ante, in figure 21. So situate, he stands over the body of Ophelia laid at length before him, which may be either considered as decorated with its virgin strewments, i. e. with flowers; or to be sported, as it were, with stones and pebbles, the resemblance of both which are visible near her person in the moon. Laer. Lay her i' th' earth; And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest, A minist'ring angel shall my sister be, When thou liest howling. Ham. What, the fair Ophelia.! Queen. Sweets to the sweet, farewel! I hop'd thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife; I thought thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid, And not have strewed thy grave. Laer. O treble woe Fall ten times treble on that cursed head, Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense Deprived thee of! Hold off the earth awhile, 'Till I have caught her once more in my arms; [Laertes leaps into the grave. Now pile your dust upon the quick and the dead, 'Till of this flat a mountain you have made, To o'ertop old Pelion, or the skyish head Of blue Olympus. [griefs Ham. [discovering himself.] What is he, whose Bear such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? this is I, Hamlet the Dane. [Hamlet leaps into the Grave. Laer. The devil take thy soul! [Grappling with him. Ham. Thou prayest not well. I pr'ythee, take thy fingers from my throat- Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand. Queen. Hamlet, Hamlet Hor. Good my Lord, be quiet. [The Attendants part them. Ham. Why, I will fight with him upon this Until my eye-lids will no longer wag. [theme (79) Queen. Oh 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. Come, shew me what thoul't do. Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't fast! woo't tear thyself; Woo't drink up Eisel, eat a crocodile? (80) (79) This alludes to the continual librations of the moon from side to side, according as the spaces which are the prototypes there of Hamlet and Laertes are alternately victorious, as it were, over each other. (80) This very strange conception may regard the like |