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-andtwenty 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! he poured a flaggon of Rhenish on my head once. This same scull, sir, was Yorick's scull, the king's jester. Ham. This? 1 Clo. E'en that. [Takes the scull. Ham. 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 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.-Pr'ythee, Horatio, tell me one thing. 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! Hor. E'en so, my lord. [Throws down the scull. Ham. To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till we 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 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, 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, &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? [Retiring with HORATIO. Laer. What ceremony else? Ham. That is Laertes, A very noble youth: Mark. Laer. What ceremony else? 1 Priest. Her obsequies have been as far enlarg❜d As we have warranty: Her death was doubtful; 3 And, but that great command o'ersways the order, Shards, flints, and pebbles, should be thrown on her; Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home Laer. Must there no more be done? 1 Priest. No more be done! We should profane the service of the dead, Laer. Lay her i’the earth ;— And from her fair and unpolluted flesh, May violets spring!—I tell thee, churlish priest, 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 have strew'd thy grave. Laer. O, treble woe Fall ten times treble on that cursed head, Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead; 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. The devil take thy soul ! Ham. Thou pray'st not well. [Leaps into the grave. [Grappling with him. I pr'ythee, take thy fingers from my throat; Which let thy wisdom fear: Hold off thy hand. Queen. Hamlet, Hamlet! All. Gentlemen, Hor. 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? Queen. For the love of God, forbear him. Ham. "Zounds, show me what thou'lt do: Woul't weep? woul't fight? woul't fast? woul't tear thyself? Woul'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? Singeing his pate against the burning zone, Queen. This is mere madness: And thus a while the fit will work on him When that her golden couplets are disclos'd, Ham. Hear you, sir; What is the reason that you use me thus ? I lov'd you ever: But it is no matter; The cat will mew, and dog will have his day. [Exit. King. I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.[Exit HORATIO. Strengthen your patience in our last night's speech; [TO LAERTES We'll put the matter to the present push.— Till then, in patience our proceeding be. [Exeunt. |