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1 Clown.
'Twill not he seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he.
Ham.
How came he mad?
1 Clown.
Very strangely, they say.
Ham.
How strangely?
1 Clown.
Faith, e'en with losing his wits.
Ham.
Upon what ground?
1 Clown.
Why, here in Denmark: I have been s.e.xton here, man and boy, thirty years.
Ham.
How long will a man lie i' the earth ere he rot?
1 Clown.
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 year.
Ham.
Why he more than another?
1 Clown.
Why, sir, his hide is so tann'd with his trade that he will keep out water a great while; and your water is a sore decayer of your wh.o.r.eson dead body. Here's a skull now; this skull hath lain in the earth three-and-twenty years.
Ham.
Whose was it?
1 Clown.
A wh.o.r.eson, mad fellow's it was: whose do you think it was?
Ham.
Nay, I know not.
1 Clown.
A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! 'a pour'd a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick's skull, the king's jester.
Ham.
This?
1 Clown.
E'en that.
Ham.
Let me see. [Takes the skull.] 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 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? 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 fas.h.i.+on i' the earth?
Hor.
E'en so.
Ham.
And smelt so? Pah!
[Throws down the skull.]
Hor.
E'en so, my lord.
Ham.
To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the n.o.ble dust of Alexander till he find it stopping a bung-hole?
Hor.
'Twere to consider too curiously to consider so.
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?
Imperious Caesar, 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 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 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 awhile and mark.
[Retiring with Horatio.]
Laer.
What ceremony else?
Ham.
That is Laertes, A very n.o.ble youth: mark.
Laer.
What ceremony else?
1 Priest.
Her obsequies have been as far enlarg'd As we have warranties: 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 allowed 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 a requiem and such rest to her As to peace-parted souls.
Laer.
Lay her i' the 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 shouldst 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 Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense Depriv'd thee of!--Hold off the earth awhile, Till I have caught her once more in mine arms: [Leaps into the grave.]
Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead, Till of this flat a mountain you have made, To o'ertop 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 wandering 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.]
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 wiseness fear: away thy hand!
King.
Pluck them asunder.
Queen.
Hamlet! Hamlet!
All.
Gentlemen!-- Hor.
