SCENE I. A churchyard.
Enter two Clowns, with spades, & c
SCENE I. A churchyard.
Enter two Clowns, with spades, & c
Is she to be buried in Christian burial that
Wilfully seeks her own salvation?
I tell thee she is: and therefore make her grave
Straight: the crowner hath sat on her, and finds it
How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her
Why, 'tis found so.
It must be 'se offendendo;' it cannot be else. For
Here lies the point: if I drown myself wittingly,
It argues an act: and an act hath three branches: it
Is, to act, to do, to perform: argal, she drowned
Nay, but hear you, goodman delver,--
Give me leave. Here lies the water; good: here
Stands the man; good; if the man go to this water,
And drown himself, it is, will he, nill he, he
Goes,--mark you that; but if the water come to him
And drown him, he drowns not himself: argal, he
That is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life.
But is this law?
Ay, marry, is't; crowner's quest law.
Will you ha' the truth on't? If this had not been
A gentlewoman, she should have been buried out o'
Why, there thou say'st: and the more pity that
Great folk should have countenance in this world to
Drown or hang themselves, more than their even
Christian. Come, my spade. There is no ancient
Gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers:
They hold up Adam's profession.
Was he a gentleman?
He was the first that ever bore arms.
Why, he had none.
What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the
Scripture? The Scripture says 'Adam digged:'
Could he dig without arms? I'll put another
Question to thee: if thou answerest me not to the
Purpose, confess thyself--
What is he that builds stronger than either the
Mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?
The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a
I like thy wit well, in good faith: the gallows
Does well; but how does it well? it does well to
Those that do ill: now thou dost ill to say the
Gallows is built stronger than the church: argal,
The gallows may do well to thee. To't again, come.
'Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or
Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.
Marry, now I can tell.
Mass, I cannot tell.
Enter HAMLET and HORATIO, at a distance
Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull
Ass will not mend his pace with beating; and, when
You are asked this question next, say 'a
Grave-maker:' the houses that he makes last till
Doomsday. Go, get thee in: fetch me a
Stoup of liquor.
Exit Second Clown
He digs and sings
In youth, when I did love, did love,
Methought it was very sweet,
To contract, O, the time, for, ah, my behove,
O, methought, there was nothing meet.
Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he
Sings at grave-making?
Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.
'Tis e'en so: the hand of little employment hath
The daintier sense.
But age, with his stealing steps,
Hath claw'd me in his clutch,
And hath shipped me intil the land,
As if I had never been such.
Throws up a skull
That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once:
How the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were
Cain's jaw-bone, that did the first murder! It
Might be the pate of a politician, which this ass
Now o'er-reaches; one that would circumvent God,
Might it not?
It might, my lord.
Or of a courtier; which could say 'Good morrow,
Sweet lord! How dost thou, good lord?' This might
Be my lord such-a-one, that praised my lord
Such-a-one's horse, when he meant to beg it; might it not?
Ay, my lord.
Why, e'en so: and now my Lady Worm's; chapless, and
Knocked about the mazzard with a sexton's spade:
Here's fine revolution, an we had the trick to
See't. Did these bones cost no more the breeding,
But to play at loggats with 'em? mine ache to think on't.
A pick-axe, and a spade, a spade,
For and a shrouding sheet:
O, a pit of clay for to be made
For such a guest is meet.
Throws up another skull
There's another: why may not that be the skull of a
Lawyer? Where be his quiddities now, his quillets,
His cases, 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 statutes,
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 lie in
This box; and must the inheritor himself have no more, ha?
Not a jot more, my lord.
Of all the days i' the year, I came to't that day
That our last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.
How long is that since?
Cannot you tell that? every fool can tell that: it
Was the very day that young Hamlet was born; he that
Is mad, and sent into England.
Ay, marry, why was he sent into England?
Why, because he was mad: he shall recover his wits
There; or, if he do not, it's no great matter there.
'Twill not be seen in him there; there the men
Are as mad as he.
How came he mad?
Very strangely, they say.
Faith, e'en with losing his wits.
Upon what ground?
Why, here in Denmark: I have been sexton here, man
And boy, thirty years.
How long will a man lie i' the earth ere he rot?
I' 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.
Why he more than another?
Why, sir, his hide is so tanned 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 skull now; this skull has lain in the earth
Three and twenty years.
Whose was it?
A whoreson mad fellow's it was: whose do you think it was?
Nay, I know not.
A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! a' poured a
Flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull,
Sir, was Yorick's skull, the king's jester.
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 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. Prithee, Horatio, tell
Me one thing.
What's that, my lord?
Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i'
And smelt so? pah!
Puts down the skull
E'en so, my lord.
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?
'Twere to consider too curiously, to consider so.
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 flaw!
But soft! but soft! aside: here comes the king.
Enter Priest, & c. in procession; the Corpse of OPHELIA, LAERTES and Mourners following; KING CLAUDIUS, QUEEN GERTRUDE, 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 awhile, and mark.
Retiring with HORATIO
What ceremony else?
That is Laertes,
A very noble youth: mark.
What ceremony else?
Her obsequies have been as far enlarged
As we have warrantise: her death was doubtful;
And, but that great command o'ersways the order,
She should in ground unsanctified have lodged
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.
Must there no more be done?
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.
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.
What, the fair Ophelia!
Sweets to the sweet: farewell!
I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife;
I thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid,