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To contract, oh, the time for, a, my behove, Oh, methought there was nothing fo meet. Ham. Has this fellow no feeling of his bufinefs, that he fings at grave-making?

Hor. Cultom hath made it to him a property of eafinefs,

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

Clown fings.

But age with his ftealing steps,

Hath claw'd me in his clutch:
And hath fhipped me into his land,
As if I had never been fuch.

Ham. That fcull 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 murther! This might be the pate of a politician, which this afs o'eroffices; one that would circumvent Cod: 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 fuch a one, that prais'd my Lord fuch a one's horfe, when he meant to beg it; might it not?

Hor. Ay, my Lord.

Ham. Why, e'en fo: and now my Lady Worm's, chaplefs, and knock'd 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 'em? mine ake to think

on't.

Clown fings.

A pick axe and a spade, a spade
For, and a shrouding fheet!
O, a pit of clay for to be made
For Juch 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 suffer this rude knave now to knock him about

the sconce with a dirty shovel, 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 recognifances, 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 fiae 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 lie in this box; and must the inheritor himself have no more? ha?

Hor. Not a jot more, my Lord.

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

Ham. They are sheep and calves that feek out affù-rance in that. I will speak to this fellow. Whose : grave's this, firrah ?

Clown. Mine, Sir.

O, a pit of clay for to be made

For fuch a guest is meet.

Ham. I think it be thine indeed, for thou lieft in't.. Clown. You lye out on't, Sir, and therefore it is not your's; for my part, I do not lye in't, yet it is mine.

Ham Thou doft lye in't, to be in't, and fay, 'tis thine 'tis for the dead, and not for the quick, there-fore thou ly'lt.

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Clown. 'Tis a quick lye, 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?:

Glen. For none neither.

Ham. Who is to be buried in't?

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

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

Clown. Of all the days i' th' year, I came to't that day that our last 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.

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

Ham. Why?

Clawn, 'Twill not be feen in him; there the men are as mad as he.

Ham. How came he mad?

Clown. Very strangely, 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 lie 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 icarce 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 so tann'd with his trade, that he will keep out water a great while. And your water is a fore decayer of your whorfon dead body. Here's a fcull now has lain in the earth three and twen

ty years.

Ham. W hofe was it?

Clown. A whorfon mad fellow's it was; whose do you think it was?

Ham. Nay, I know not,

Clown. A peftilence on him for a mad rogue! he pour'd a flaggon of Rhenifh on my head once. This fame fcull, Sir, was Yorick's fcull, the King's jefter. Ham. This

Clown. E en that.

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 rifes at it. Here hung thofe lips that I have kifs'd I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now; your gambols; your fongs? your flashes 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 look'd o' this fa

fhion i' th' earth?

Hor. E'en fo,

Ham. And fmelt fo, puh !

Hor, E'en fo, my Lord.

[Smelling to the fculk.

Ham. To what base uses we may return, Horatio! why may not imagination trace the noble dufst of A. lexander, till he find it stopping a bung hole?

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 duft is earth; of earth we make lome; and why of that lome, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer barrel? Imperial Cæfar, dead and turn'd to clay, Might stop 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 a while-here comes the King,

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Enter King, Queen, Laertes, and a coffin, with Lords and Priefts attendant.

The Queen, the courtiers. What is that they follow,
And with fuch maimed rites? this doth betoken,

The corfe they follow did with defperate hand
Foredo its own life; 'twas of some estate.

Couch we a while, and mark,

Laer. What ceremony else?

Ham. That is Laertes a moft noble youth: mark-
1.aer. What ceremony clfe?

Prieft Her oble quies have been fo far enlarg'd
As we have warrantry; her death was doubtful:
And but that great command o'erfways the order,
She thould in ground unfan&tified have lodg'd
For charitable prayers,

Till the last trump.

Shards, flints, and pebbles, fhould be thrown on her;,
Yet here the is allow'd her virgin chants,

Her maiden frewments, and the bringing home
Of bell and burial *.

Laer. Mut no more be done?

Prieft. No more be done!

We fhould profane the service of the dead,,
To fing a Requiem, and fuch relt to her
As to peace-parted fouls.

Laer. Lay her i' th' earth;

"And from her fair and unpolluted flesh

May violents fpring! I tell thee, churlish prieft,. "A miniftring angel fhall my fider be,

"When thou lieft howling.

Ham What, the fair Ophelia !

Queen Sweets to the fweet, farewel!

I hop'd thou should't 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 fenfe
Depriv'd thee of! Hold off the earth a while,
Till I have caught her once more in my arms;
[Laertes leaps into the
Now pile your dut upon the quick and dead,
Till of this flat a mountain you have made,
T'o'ertop old Pelion, or the fkyish head
Of blue Olympus.

grave.

Ham. [difcovering himself. What is he whofe griefs› Bear fuch an emphafis? whofe phrafe of forrow Conjures the wand'ring ftars and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? this is 1,

[Hamlet leaps into the grave;.

Burial here fignifies interment in confecrated ground..

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