Is she to be buried in Christian burial, when she willfully 31913142seeks her own salvation?

I tell thee she is; therefore make her grave straight. The 31933144crowner hath sat on her, and finds it Christian burial.

How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own31963146defense?

Why, 'tis found so.

It must be so offended, it cannot be else, for here lies the 31993149point: if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act, and an act hath 32003150three branches: it is to act, to do, and to perform. Argal, she drowned 32013151herself wittingly.

Nay, but hear you, good man delver.

Give me leave. Here lies the water; good. Here stands the 32053154man; good. If the man go to this water and drown himself, it is, will 32063155he, nill he, he goes. Mark you that. But if the water come to him and 32073156drown him, he drowns not himself. Argal, he that is not guilty of 32093157his 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 32133161gentlewoman, she should have been buried 3214out o'Christian burial.

Why, there thou say'st, and the more pity that great folk 32163163should have count'nance in this world to drown or hang themselves 32173164more than their even-Christen. Come, my spade. There is no 32183165ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and gravemakers. They hold 32193166up Adam's profession.

Was he a gentleman?

'A was the first that ever bore arms. I'll put another 3227question to thee. If thou answerest me not to the purpose, 3228confess thyself.

Go to.

What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the 32313173shipwright, or the carpenter?

The gallows-maker, for that outlives a thousand tenants.

I like thy wit well, in good faith, the gallows does well.32353176But how does it well? It does well to those that do ill. Now, thou 32363177dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the church. Argal, 32373178the gallows may do well to thee. To't again, come.

"Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a 32403180carpenter?"

Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.

Marry, now I can tell.

To't.

Mass, I cannot tell.

Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will 32473186not mend his pace with beating; and when you are asked this question 32483187next, say "a grave-maker." The houses he makes lasts till doomsday. 32493188Go get thee in, and fetch me a soope of liquor.

Has this fellow no feeling of his business? 'A sings in 32573195grave-making.

Custom hath made it in him a property of 3259easiness.

'Tis e'en so. The hand of little employment hath 3261the daintier sense.

That skull had a tongue in it and could sing once. How the 32683203knave jowls it to the ground, as if 'twere Cain's jawbone, that did the 32693204first murder! This might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now 32703205o'erreaches, one that would circumvent God, might it not?

It might, my lord.

Or of a courtier, which could say, "Good morrow, sweet lord, 32743208how dost thou, sweet lord?" This might be my Lord Such-a-one, that 32753209praised my Lord Such-a-one's horse when 'a went to beg it, might it not?

Ay, my lord.

Why, e'en so. And now my Lady Worm's, chopless, and knocked 32793212about the massene with a sexton's spade. Here's fine revolution, an 32803213we had the trick to see't. Did these bones cost no more the breeding 32813214but to play at loggets with them? Mine ache to think on't.

There's another. Why may not that be the 3290skull of a lawyer? 3220Where be his quiddities now, his 3291quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his 3221tricks? Why 3292does he suffer this mad knave now to knock him 3222about 3293the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of 3294his 3223action of battery? H'm! This fellow might be 3295in's time a great buyer of 3224land, with his statutes, his 3296recognizances, his fines, his double 3225vouchers, his 3297recoveries, to have his fine pate full of fine dirt? Will 32993226vouchers vouch him no more of his purchases, and double ones too, than the length 33003227and breadth of a pair of indentures? The very conveyances of his 33013228lands will scarcely lie in this box, and must th'inheritor himself have 33033229no more, ha?

Not a jot more, my lord.

Is not parchment made of sheepskins?

Ay, my lord, and of calves' skins too.

They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in 33083234that. I will speak to this fellow.--Whose grave's this, sirrah?

Mine, sir.

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

You lie out on't, sir, and therefore 'tis not yours. For my part, I 33153238do not lie in't, yet it is mine.

Thou dost lie in't, to be in't and say it is thine. 'Tis for the dead, 33173240not for the quick; therefore thou liest.

'Tis a quick lie, sir; 'twill away again from me to you.

What man dost thou dig it for?

For no man, sir.

What woman, then?

For none, neither.

Who is to be buried in't?

One that was a woman, sir, but, rest her soul, she's dead.

[To Horatio] How absolute the knave is! We must speak by the card, or 33293249equivocation will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, this three years I 33303250have took note of it, the age is grown so picked that the toe of the 33313251peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier he galls his kibe.--How 33333252long hast thou been grave-maker?

Of the days i'th' year, I came to't that day that our last King 33353254Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.

How long is that since?

Cannot you tell that? Every fool can tell that. It was that 33383257very day that young Hamlet was born--he that is mad and sent into 33393258England.

Ay, marry, why was he sent into England?

Why, because 'a was mad. 'A shall recover his wits there, or if 33423261'a do not, 'tis no great matter there.

Why?

'Twill not be seen in him there. There the men are as mad as he.

How came he mad?

Very strangely, they say.

How strangely?

Faith, e'en with losing his wits.

Upon what ground?

Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton here, man 33523270and boy, thirty years.

How long will a man lie i'th' earth ere he rot?

Faith, if 'a be not rotten before 'a die--as we have many 33553273pocky corses nowadays that will scarce hold the laying in--'a will last you some eight 33563274year, 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 'a will keep 33603277out water a great while; and your water is a sore decayer of your 33613278whoreson dead body. [He picks up a skull.] Here's a skull 3362now hath lyen you i'th'earth 23 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 33683283Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was, sir, Yorick's skull, the 33693284King's jester.

This?

E'en that.

[taking the skull] Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite 33733288jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath bore me on his back a 33743289thousand times, and now how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge 33753290rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how 33763291oft.--Where be your gibes now? Your gambols, your songs, your 33783292flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one 33793293now to mock your own grinning? Quite chopfall'n? Now get you 33803294to my lady's table and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this 33823295favor she must come. Make her laugh at that. 3296Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing.

What's that, my lord?

Dost thou think Alexander looked o'this fashion i'th' earth?

E'en so.

And smelt so? Pah!

E'en so, my lord.

To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not 33913303imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till 'a find it stopping 33923304a bunghole?

'Twere to consider too curiously to consider so.

No, faith, not a jot. But to follow him thither with modesty 33953307enough, and likelihood to lead it: Alexander died, Alexander was 33963308buried, Alexander returneth to dust, the dust is earth, of earth we 33973309make loam, and why of that loam whereto he was converted might 33993310they not stop a beer-barrel?

5.1.9834043315But soft, but soft awhile! Here comes the King,

5.1.9934073316The Queen, the courtiers. Who is this they follow?

5.1.10034083317And with such maimèd rites? This doth betoken

5.1.10134093318The corse they follow did with desp'rate hand

5.1.10234103319Fordo it own life. 'Twas of some estate.

5.1.10334113320Couch we awhile and mark.

What ceremony else?

[Aside to Horatio] That is Laertes, a very noble youth. Mark.

What ceremony else?

Her obsequies have been as far enlarged

5.1.10834163325As we have warranty. Her death was doubtful,

5.1.10934173326And, but that great command o'ersways the order,

5.1.11034183327She should in ground unsanctified been lodged

5.1.11134193328Till the last trumpet. For charitable prayers,

5.1.11234203329Flints, and pebbles should be thrown on her;

5.1.11334213330Yet here she is allowed her virgin crants,

5.1.11434223331Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home

5.1.11534233332Of bell and burial.

Must there no more be done?

Must there no more be done? No more be done.

5.1.11734263335We should profane the service of the dead

5.1.11834273336To sing a requiem and such rest to her

5.1.11934283337As to peace-parted souls.

As to peace-parted souls. Lay her i'th' earth,

5.1.12034303339And from her fair and unpolluted flesh

5.1.12134313340May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest,

5.1.12234323341A minist'ring angel shall my sister be

5.1.12334333342When thou liest howling.

When thou liest howling. [To Horatio] What, the fair Ophelia!

[Scattering flowers] Sweets to the sweet! Farewell.

5.1.12534363345I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife.

5.1.12634373346I thought thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid,

5.1.12734383347And not have strewed thy grave.

And not have strewed thy grave. Oh, treble woe

5.1.12834403349Fall ten times double on that cursèd head

5.1.12934413350Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense

5.1.13034423351Deprived thee of!--Hold off the earth awhile,

5.1.13134433352Till I have caught her once more in mine arms.

5.1.13234453353Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead,

5.1.13334463354Till of this flat a mountain you have made

5.1.13434473355T'o'ertop old Pelion, or the skyish head

5.1.13534483356Of blue Olympus.

Of blue Olympus. [Coming forward] What is he whose grief

5.1.13634503358Bears such an emphasis, whose phrase of sorrow

5.1.13734513359Conjures the wand'ring stars, and makes them stand

5.1.13834523360Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I,

5.1.13934533361Hamlet the Dane.

Hamlet the Dane. 34543362Laertes[Grappling with Hamlet]

The devil take thy soul!

Thou pray'st not well. I prithee take thy fingers from my throat,

5.1.14134573364For, though I am not splenative rash,

5.1.14234583365Yet have I in me something dangerous,

5.1.14334593366Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand!

Pluck them asunder.

Hamlet, Hamlet!

Gentlemen!

Good my lord, be quiet.

Why, I will fight with him upon this theme

5.1.14934643372Until my eyelids will no longer wag.

Oh, my son, what theme?

I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers

5.1.15234673375Could not with all their quantity of love

5.1.15334683376Make up my sum.--What wilt thou do for her?

Oh, he is mad, Laertes.

For love of God, forbear him.

'Swounds, show me what thou'lt do.

5.1.15734723380Woo't weep? Woo't fight? Woo't fast? Woo't tear thyself?

5.1.15834733381Woo't drink up eisil? Eat a crocodile?

5.1.15934743382I'll do't. Dost come here to whine?

5.1.16034753383To outface me with leaping in her grave?

5.1.16134763384Be buried quick with her, and so will I.

5.1.16234773385And if thou prate of mountains, let them throw

5.1.16334783386Millions of acres on us, till our ground,

5.1.16434793387Singeing his pate against the burning zone,

5.1.16534803388Make Ossa like a wart. Nay, an thou'lt mouth,

5.1.16634813389I'll rant as well as thou.

I'll rant as well as thou. This is mere madness,

5.1.16734833391And this awhile the fit will work on him;

5.1.16834843392Anon, as patient as the female dove

5.1.16934853393When that her golden couplets are disclosed,

5.1.17034863394His silence will sit drooping.

His silence will sit drooping. [To Laertes] Hear you, sir,

5.1.17134883396What is the reason that you use me thus?

5.1.17234893397I loved you ever. But it is no matter.

5.1.17334903398Let Hercules himself do what he may,

5.1.17434913399The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.

I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.

5.1.17634933401[Aside to Laertes] Strengthen your patience in our last night's speech;

5.1.17734943402We'll put the matter to the present push.--

5.1.17834953403Good Gertrard, set some watch over your son.--

5.1.17934963404This grave shall have a living monument.

5.1.18034973405An hour of quiet thereby shall we see;

5.1.18134983406Till then, in patience our proceeding be.