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galls his kibe. How long hast thou been a gravemaker?
i Clo. Of all the days i'the year, I came to't that day that our last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras. Ham. How long's that since ?
1 Clo. Cannot you tell that ? every fool can tell that: It was that very day that young Hamlet was born: he that is mad, and sent into England.
Ham. Ay, marry, why was he sent into England ?
1 Clo. Why, because he was mad: he shall recover his wits there; or, if he do not, 'tis no great matter there.
1 Clo. 'Twill not be seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he.
Ham. How came he mad?
1 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?
1 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
Ham. Why he more than another?
i Clo. Why, sir, his hide is so tanped 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 scull now hath lain
you i'the earth three-and-twenty years.
Ham. Whose was it? i Clo. A whoreson mad fellow's it was; Whose you
think it was? Ham. Nay, I know not.
i Clò. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue ! he poured a flagon of Rhenish on my
head same scull, sir, was Yorick's scull, the king's jester. Ham. This ?
[Takes the Scull. 1 Clo. E'en that.
Ham. Alas! poor Yorick !-] 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 on 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.-Prythee, Horatio, tell me one thing.
Hor. What's that, lord ?
Ham. Dost thou think, Alexander looked o’this fashion i'the earth >
Hor. E'en so.
[Throws down the Scull.
4 Countenance, complexion.
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. 'Twere to consider too curiously, to con
Jlam. 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?
Imperious' Cæsar, dead, and turn’d to clay,
Should patch a wall to expel the winter's flaw!6
Enter Priests, 8c. in Procession ; the Corpse of
OPHELIA, LAERTES, and Mourners following;
King, Queen, their Trains, fc.
[Retiring with HORATIO,
That is Laertes,
Lacr. What ceremony else?
1 Priest. Her obsequies have been as far enlarg’d
Laer. Must there no more be done?
No more be done!
Lay her i’the earth ;-
What, the fair Ophelia !
[Scattering Flowers. I hop'd, thou should'st have been my Hamlet's wife; [ thought, thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid, And not have strew'd thy grave. Laer.
O, treble woe
* Broken pots or tiles.
3 A mass for the dead.
Till I have caught her once more in mine arms :
[Leaps into the Grate, Now pile your dust upon the quick 4 and dead; Till of this flat a mountain you have made To o'er-top old Pelion, pr the skyish head Of blue Olympus.
Ham. [Advancing.] What is he, whose grief Bears such an emphasis ? whose phrase of sorrow Conjures the wand'ring stars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers ? this is I, Hamlet the Dane.
[Leaps into the Grave. Laer.
The devil take thy soul !
[Grappling with him.
King. Pluck them asunder.
Hamlet, Hamlet !
Good my lord, be quiet. [The Attendants part them, đnd they come out of
the Grave. Ham. Why, I will fight with him upon this theme, Until my eyelids will no longer wag.
Queen. O 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.