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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 you nine year.

Ham. Why he more than another?

1 Clo. 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 whoreson dead body. Here's a scull now hath lain you i'the earth three-and-twenty years.

do

Ham. Whose was it?

1 Clo. A whoreson mad fellow's it was; Whose you think it was?

Ham. Nay, I know not.

1 Clo. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! he pour'd 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 abhorr'd 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 look'd 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 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 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 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 proeession; the corpse of Ophelia, Laertes and Mourners following it; King, Queen, their Trains, &c.

The queen, the courtiers: Who is this they follow? And with such maimed rites! This doth betoken, The corse, they follow, did with desperate hand Fordo its own life. "Twas of some estate:

Couch we a-while, and mark.

[Retiring with Horatio.

That is Laertes,

Laer. What ceremony else?

Ham.

A very noble youth: Mark.

Laer. What ceremony else?

1 Priest. Her obsequies have been as far en-
larg'd

As we have warranty: Her death was doubtful;
And, but that great command o'ersways the order,
She should in ground unsanctify'd 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 crants,

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 minist'ring angel shall my sister be,

When thou liest howling.

Ham.

What, the fair Ophelia!

Queen. Sweets to the sweet: Farewel!

[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,
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:
[Leaps into the grace.

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.

[Leaps into the grace.

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 wisdom fear: Hold off thy hand.

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[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. '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?
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, an 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.

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