Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye!
By heaven, thy madness shall be paid with weight,
Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May!
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!-
O heavens ! is't possible, a young maid's wits
Should be as mortal as an old man's life?
Nature is fine in love: and, where 'tis fine,
It sends some precious instance of itself
After the thing it loves.

OPHELIA. They bore him barefac'd on the bier;
Hey no nonny, nonny hey nonny:

And in his grave rain'd many a tear; —

Fare you well, my dove!

LAERTES. Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge,

It could not move thus.

OPHELIA. You must sing, Down a-down, an you call him a-dow-a. O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master's daughter. LAERTES. This nothing's more than matter. OPHELIA. There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.

PL. II.

LAERTES. A document in madness; thoughts and remembrance fitted.

OPHELIA. There's fennel for you, and columbines:- there's rue for you, and here's some for me: - we may call it, herb of grace o' Sundays: you may wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy - I would give you some violets; but they withered all, when my father died: They say, he made a good end,

-

FIRST CLOWN. This same skull, sir, was Yorick's skull, the king's jester. HAMLET. This?

FIRST CLOWN. E'en that.

:

(Takes the skull.)

HAMLET. Alas, poor Yorick! — I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent 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 yon 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.

HORATIO. What's that, my lord?

HAMLET. Dost thou think, Alexander looked o' this fashion i' the earth?

HORATIO. E'en so, my lord.

PL. 12.

HAMLET. 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?

HORATIO. "Twere to consider too curiously, to consider so.

HAMLET. 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 beerbarrel?

Imperious Cæsar, dead, and turn'd to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away: O, that the 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, etc., in Procession; the Corpse of Ophelia, Laertes, and Mourners following; King, Queen their Trains, etc.)