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Hor. Custom hath made it to him a property of cafinefs.

Ham. 'Tis even fo; the hand of little employment hath the daintier fenfe.

Clown fings.

"But age with his ftealing steps

"Hath clawed me in his clutch: "And hath fhipped me into the land, "As if I had never been fuch."

Ham. That skull had a tongue in it, and could fing once; how the knave jowles it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jaw-bone that did the first murder! this might be the pate of a politician, which this afs o'er-offices; one that would circumvent God, might it not?

Hor. It might, my Lord.

Ham. Or of a courtier, which could fay, Good morrow, fweet Lord; how doft thou, good Lord?” this might be my Lord Such-a-one, that praised my Lord Such-a-one's horfe, when he meant to beg it; might it not?

Hor. Ay, my Lord.

Ham. Why, even fo: and now my Lady Worm's chaplefs, and knocked about the mazzard with a fexton's fpade. Here's a fine revolution, if we had the trick to fee't. Did these bones coft no more the breeding, but to play at loggats with them? mine ake to think on't. (68)

(68) Did these bones coft no more the breeding, but to play at loggers with them? I have restored, from the old copies, the true word, loggats. We meet with it again in Ben John fon ;

Now are they toffing of his legs and arms
Like loggats at a pear-tree.

A Tale of a Tub.

Clown fings.

"A pick-axe and a spade, a spade,

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66

For,---and a fhrouding theet! O, a pit of clay for to be made "For fuch a guest is meet."

Ham. There's another: why may not that be the fcull of a lawyer? where be his quiddits now? his quillets, his cafes, his tenures, and his tricks? why does he fuffer this rude kuave now to knock him about the fconce with a dirty fhovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? hum, this fellow might be in's time a great buyer of land, with his ftatutes, his recognizances, his fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries. Is this the fine of

his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his fine pate full of fine dirt? will his vouchers vouch him no more of his purchases, and double ones too, than the length and breadth of a pair of indentures? the very conveyances of his lands will hardly ly in this box; and must the inheritor himfelf have no more? ha?

Hor. Not a jot more, my Lord.

Ham. Is not parchment made of sheep-skins?
Hor. Ay, my Lord, and calve-skins too.

Ham. They are fheep and calves that feek out affurance in that. I will fpeak to this fellow: Whofe grave's this, firrah?

Clown. Mine, Sir-

"O, a pit of clay for to be made

"For fuch a guest is meet."

What fort of fport this was, , I confefs, I do not know; but I find it in the lift of unlawful games, prohibited by a statute 33 Henry VIII. cap. x. fect. 16.

Ham I think it be thine indeed, for thou lyest in't.

Clown. You ly out on't, Sir, and therefore it is not yours; for my part, I do not ly in't, yet it

is mine.

Ham. Thou doft lie in't, to be in't, and say, 'tis thine: 'tis for the dead, not for the quick, therefore thou lyeft.

Clown. 'Tis a quick lie, Sir, 'twill away again from me to you.

Ham. What man doft thou dig it for?
Clown. For no man, Sir.

Ham. What woman then?

Clown. For none neither.

Ham. Who's to be buried in't?

Clown. One that was a woman, Sir; but, reft her foul, fhe's dead.

Ham. How abfolute the knave is! we must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken note of it, the age is grown fo picked, that the toe of the peafant comes fo near the heel of our courtier, that he galls his kibe. How long haft thou been a grave-maker?

Ham. Of all the days i' th' year, I came to't that day that our laft King Hamlet o'ercame Fortinbras.

Ham. How long is that fince?

Clown. Cannot you tell that? every fool can tell that it was that very day that young Hamlet was born, he that was mad, and fent into England.

Ham. Ay, marry, why was he fent into England? Clown. Why, becaufe he was mad; he fhall recover his wits there; or, if he do not, it's no great inatter there.

-Ham. Why?

Clown. 'Twill not be feen in him; there the men

are as mad as he.

Ham. How came he mad?

Clown. Very strangly, they fay.

Ham. How ftrangely?

Clown. 'Faith, e'en with lofing his wits.
Ham. Upon what ground?

Clown. Why, here, in Denmark. I have been fexton here, man and boy, thirty years.

Ham. How long will a man ly i' th' earth ere he rot?

Clown. I'faith, if he be not rotten before he die, (as we have many pocky corfes now-a-days, that will fearce hold the laying in) he will last you fome eight year, or nine year; a tanner will last you nine years.

Ham. Why he more than another?

Clown. Why, Sir, his hide is fo tanned with his trade, that he will keep out water a great while : and your water is a fore decayer of your whorefon dead body. Here's a fcull now has lain in the earth three and twenty years.

Ham. Whofe was it?

Clown. A whorefon mad fellow's it was; whofe do you think it was?

Ham. Nay, I know not.

Clown. A peftilence on him for a mad rogue! he poured a flaggon of Rhenish on my head once. This fame fcull, Sir, was Yorick's fcull, the King's jester.

Ham. This?

Clown. Even that.

Ham. Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jeft; of most exquifite fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times: and

now how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rifes at it. Here hung thofe lips that I have kiffed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your fongs? your fafhes of merriment, that were wont to fet the table in 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 the must come; make her laugh at that— Pr'ythee, Horatio, tell me one thing.

Hor. What's that, my Lord?

Ham. Doft thou think Alexander looked o' this fafhion i' th' earth?

Hor. Even fo.

Ham. And smelt fo, puh? [Smelling to the Scull. Hor. Even fo, my Lord.

Ham. To what bafe ufes we may return, Horatio! why may not imagination trace the noble duft of Alexander, 'till he find it stopping a bunghole?

Hor. 'Twere to confider too curioufly to confider fo.

Ham. No, 'faith, not a jot: but to follow him thither with modefty enough, and likelihood to lead it; as thus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth to duft; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam: and why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not ftop a beer-barrel ?

Imperial Cæfar, dead and turned to clay,
Might flop a hole to keep the wind away:
Oh, that that earth, which kept the world in awe,
Should patch a wall, t' expel the winter's flaw !
But foft! but foft, awhile---here comes the King,

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