Part 30

Ham. How long will a man lie i'th' earth ere he rot? Clo. Ifaith, if he be not rotten before he die (as we haue many pocky Coarses now adaies, that will scarce hold the laying in) he will last you some eight yeare, or nine yeare. A Tanner will last you nine yeare

Ham. Why he, more then another? Clo. Why sir, his hide is so tan'd with his Trade, that he will keepe out water a great while. And your water, is a sore Decayer of your horson dead body. Heres a Scull now: this Scul, has laine in the earth three & twenty years

Ham. Whose was it? Clo. A whoreson mad Fellowes it was; Whose doe you thinke it was? Ham. Nay, I know not

Clo. A pestilence on him for a mad Rogue, a pour'd a Flaggon of Renish on my head once. This same Scull Sir, this same Scull sir, was Yoricks Scull, the Kings Iester

Ham. This? Clo. E'ene that

Ham. Let me see. Alas poore Yorick, I knew him Horatio, a fellow of infinite Iest; of most excellent fancy, he hath borne me on his backe a thousand times: And how abhorred my Imagination is, my gorge rises at it. Heere hung those lipps, that I haue kist I know not how oft. Where be your Iibes now? Your Gambals? Your Songs? Your flashes of Merriment that were wont to set the Table on a Rore? No one now to mock your own Ieering? Quite chopfalne? Now get you to my Ladies Chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thicke, to this fauour she must come. Make her laugh at that: prythee Horatio tell me one thing

Hor. What's that my Lord? Ham. Dost thou thinke Alexander lookt o'this fashion i'th' earth? Hor. E'ene so

Ham. And smelt so? Puh

Hor. E'ene so, my Lord

Ham. To what base vses we may returne Horatio. Why may not Imagination trace the Noble dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping a bunghole

Hor. 'Twere to consider: to curiously to consider so

Ham. No faith, not a iot. But to follow him thether with modestie enough, & likeliehood to lead it; as thus. Alexander died: Alexander was buried: Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make Lome, and why of that Lome (whereto he was conuerted) might they not stopp a Beere-barrell? Imperiall Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay, Might stop a hole to keepe the winde away. Oh, that that earth, which kept the world in awe, Should patch a Wall, t' expell the winters flaw. But soft, but soft, aside; heere comes the King. Enter King, Queene, Laertes, and a Coffin, with Lords attendant.

The Queene, the Courtiers. Who is that they follow, And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken, The Coarse they follow, did with disperate hand, Fore do it owne life; 'twas some Estate. Couch we a while, and mark

Laer. What Cerimony else? Ham. That is Laertes, a very Noble youth: Marke

Laer. What Cerimony else? Priest. Her Obsequies haue bin as farre inlarg'd. As we haue warrantie, her death was doubtfull, And but that great Command, o're-swaies the order, She should in ground vnsanctified haue lodg'd, Till the last Trumpet. For charitable praier, Shardes, Flints, and Peebles, should be throwne on her: Yet heere she is allowed her Virgin Rites, Her Maiden strewments, and the bringing home Of Bell and Buriall

Laer. Must there no more be done ? Priest. No more be done: We should prophane the seruice of the dead, To sing sage Requiem, and such rest to her As to peace-parted Soules

Laer. Lay her i'th' earth, And from her faire and vnpolluted flesh, May Violets spring. I tell thee (churlish Priest) A Ministring Angell shall my Sister be, When thou liest howling? Ham. What, the faire Ophelia? Queene. Sweets, to the sweet farewell. I hop'd thou should'st haue bin my Hamlets wife: I thought thy Bride-bed to haue deckt (sweet Maid) And not t'haue strew'd thy Graue

Laer. Oh terrible woer, Fall ten times trebble, on that cursed head Whose wicked deed, thy most Ingenious sence Depriu'd thee of. Hold off the earth a while, Till I haue caught her once more in mine armes:

Leaps in the graue.

Now pile your dust, vpon the quicke, and dead, Till of this flat a Mountaine you haue made, To o're top old Pelion, or the skyish head Of blew Olympus

Ham. What is he, whose griefes Beares such an Emphasis? whose phrase of Sorrow Coniure the wandring Starres, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane

Laer. The deuill take thy soule

Ham. Thou prai'st not well, I prythee take thy fingers from my throat; Sir though I am not Spleenatiue, and rash, Yet haue I something in me dangerous, Which let thy wisenesse feare. Away thy hand

King. Pluck them asunder

Qu. Hamlet, Hamlet

Gen. Good my Lord be quiet

Ham. Why I will fight with him vppon this Theme. Vntill my eielids will no longer wag

Qu. Oh my Sonne, what Theame? Ham. I lou'd Ophelia; fortie thousand Brothers Could not (with all there quantitie of Loue) Make vp my summe. What wilt thou do for her? King. Oh he is mad Laertes, Qu. For loue of God forbeare him