your water is a sore decayer of your whoreson dead body. Here's a scull now; this scull hath lain you i' th' earth three-and-twenty years.

Ham. Whose was it?

1 Clo. A whoreson mad fellow's it was: whose do you think it was?

Ham. Nay, I know not.

1 Clo. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! 'a pour'd a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same scull, sir, this same scull, sir, was Yorick's scull, the King's jester.

Ham. This ?

1 Clo. E'en that.

:

[Takes the scull.

Ham. Let me see. 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 my imagination is! my gorge rises at it: here hung those lips that I have kiss'd 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? No 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 look'd o' this fashion i' th' earth?

Ham. And smelt so? puh! [Puts down the scull. 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 bung-hole ?

So.

Hor. 'Twere to consider too curiously to consider

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 into 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 turn'd 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 t' 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 that they follow,
And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken,
The corse they follow did with desperate hand
Fordo it own life: 'twas of some estate.

Couch we a while, and mark.

[Retiring with HORATIO.

Laer. What ceremony else?
Ham.

A very noble youth mark.

Laer. What ceremony else?

That is Laertes,

1 Priest. Her obsequies have been as far enlarg'd

As we have warrantise: her death was doubtful;
And but that great command o'ersways the order,
She should in ground unsanctified have lodg'd,
Till the last trumpet: for charitable prayers,
Shards, flints, and pebbles, should be thrown on her;
Yet here she is allow'd her virgin rites,

Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home

Of bell and burial.

Laer.

Must there no more be done?

1 Priest.

No more be done? We should profane the service of the dead, To sing such requiem, and such rest to her As to peace-parted souls.

Laer.

Lay her i' th' earth;

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh,

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 hop'd thou should'st have been my Hamlet's wife: I thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid, And not t' have strew'd thy grave.

Laer.
O, treble woe
Fall ten times 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 mine arms.
[Leaping into the grave.

Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead,
Till of this flat a mountain you have made,
To o'er-top 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 wand'ring stars, and makes them stand, Like wonder-wounded hearers? this is I,

Hamlet the Dane.

Laer.

[Leaping into the grave.

The Devil take thy soul!

[Grappling with him.

Ham. Thou pray'st not well.

I pr'ythee, take thy fingers from my throat;
For though I am not splenetive and rash,
Yet have I in me something dangerous,

Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand.
King. Pluck them asunder.

Queen.

[All. Gentlemen, -]

Hor.

Hamlet! Hamlet!

Good my lord, be quiet.

[The Attendants part them, and 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.

Queen. For love of God, forbear him.

Ham. 'Swounds! shew me what thou'lt do: Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't fast? woo't tear thy

self?

Woo't drink up Esill? 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
Millions of acres on us, till our ground,

Singeing his pate against the burning zone,

Make Ossa like a wart!

I'll rant as well as thou.

Queen.

Nay, and thou'lt mouth,

This is mere madness:

And thus a while the fit will work on him;
Anon, as patient as the female dove,

When that her golden couplets are disclos'd,
His silence will sit drooping.

Ham.

Hear you, sir:

What is the reason that you use me thus?

I lov'd you ever: but it is no matter;

Let Hercules himself do what he may,

The cat will mew, and dog will have his day. [Exit. King. I pray you, good Horatio, wait upon him. [Exit HORATIO.

[To LAERTES.] Strengthen your patience in our last

night's speech;

We'll put the matter to the present push.

Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son.
This grave shall have a living monument:

An hour of quiet shortly shall we see;

Till then, in patience our proceeding be. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Hall in the Castle.

Enter HAMLET and HORATIO.

Ham. So much for this, sir: now let me see the

other.

You do remember all the circumstance ?

Hor. Remember it, my lord!

Ham. Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting,

That would not let me sleep: methought, I lay
Worse than the mutines in the bilboes.

Rashly,

And prais'd be rashness for it, let us know,
Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,

When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach