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- Edition: Hamlet
Hamlet (Modern, Quarto 2)
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3189[5.1]
3140Enter two Clowns [with spades and mattocks].
I tell thee she is; therefore make her grave straight. The 31933144crowner hath sat on her, and finds it Christian burial.
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.
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.
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.
23.1[Exit Second Clown.]
23.2[The First Clown digs.]
In youth when I did love, did love,
3245Enter Hamlet and Horatio.
Custom hath made it in him a property of 3259easiness.
'Tis e'en so. The hand of little employment hath 3261the daintier sense.
Song.
But age with his stealing steps
34.1[The Clown throws up a skull.]
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.
Song.
A pickax and a spade, a spade,
[He throws up another skull.]
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.
49.1[Sings.]
3311Oh, a pit of clay for to be made --
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?
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?
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!
89.1[He throws the skull down.]
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?
97.1Enter King, Queen, Laertes, and the corse [of Ophelia, in funeral procession, with the "Doctor" or Priest, and others].
[Hamlet and Horatio conceal themselves. Ophelia's body is taken to the grave.]
What ceremony else?
[Aside to Horatio] That is Laertes, a very noble youth. Mark.
What ceremony else?
Her obsequies have been as far enlarged
Must there no more be done?
No more be done.
Lay her i'th' earth,
[To Horatio] What, the fair Ophelia!
[Scattering flowers] Sweets to the sweet! Farewell.
Oh, treble woe
3444[He leaps in the grave]
[Coming forward] What is he whose grief
The devil take thy soul!
Thou pray'st not well. I prithee take thy fingers from my throat,
Pluck them asunder.
Hamlet, Hamlet!
Gentlemen!
Good my lord, be quiet.
[Hamlet and Laertes are parted.]
Why, I will fight with him upon this theme
Oh, my son, what theme?
I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers
Oh, he is mad, Laertes.
For love of God, forbear him.
'Swounds, show me what thou'lt do.
This is mere madness,
[To Laertes] Hear you, sir,
174.1Exit Hamlet.
I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.
175.1And Horatio [exits too].
Exeunt.