Ham. I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in 't.
First Clo. You lie out on 't, sir, and therefore 'tis

not yours: for my part, I do not lie in 't, and
yet it is mine.

Ham. Thou dost lie in 't, to be in't and say it is
thine: 'tis for the dead, not for the quick; there-
fore thou liest.

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

Ham. What man dost thou dig it for?

First Clo. For no man, sir.

130

Ham. What woman then?

First Clo. For none neither.

Ham. Who is to be buried in 't?

140

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

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

First Clo. Of all the days i' the year, I came to 't 150 that day that our last King Hamlet o'ercame Fortinbras.

Ham. How long is that since?

First Clo. Cannot you tell that? every fool can tell
that it was that very day that young Hamlet
was born; he that is mad, and sent into England.

Ham. Ay, marry, why was he sent into England?
First Clo. Why, because a' was mad: a' shall recover

his wits there; or, if a' do not, 'tis no great
matter there.

Ham. Why?

First Clo. 'Twill not be seen in him there; there the

men are as mad as he.

Ham. How came he mad?

First Clo. Very strangely, they say.

Ham. How 'strangely'?

First Clo. Faith, e'en with losing his wits.
Ham. Upon what ground?

First Clo. Why, here in Denmark: I have been sex-
ton here, man and boy, thirty years.

160

170 Ham. How long will a man lie i' the earth ere he rot? First Clo. I' faith, if a' be not rotten before a' die—

as we have many pocky corses now-a-days, that
will scarce hold the laying in-a' will last you
some eight year or nine year: a tanner will last
you nine year.

Ham. Why he more than another?

First Clo. Why, sir, his hide is so tanned with his trade that a' will keep out water a great while; and your water is a sore decayer of your whore- 180 son dead body. Here's a skull now: this skull has lain in the earth three and twenty years.

Ham. Whose was it?

First Clo. A whoreson mad fellow's it was: whose do you think it was?

Ham. Nay, I know not.

First Clo. 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.

190

Ham. This?

First Clo. E'en that.

Ham. 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? 200 your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chop-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.

Hor. What's that, my lord?

Ham. Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this

fashion i' the earth?

Hor. E'en so.

Ham. And smelt so? pah!

Hor. E'en so, my lord.

210

[Puts down the skull.

Ham. 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?

Hor. 'Twere to consider too curiously, to consider

So.

Ham. 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, 220 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 Cæsar, 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's flaw!

But soft! but soft! aside: here comes the king.

Enter Priests, &c. in procession; the Corpse of Ophelia, Laertes and Mourners following; King, Queen, their trains, &c.

The queen, the courtiers: who is this they follow?
And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken 231
The corse they follow did with desperate hand
Fordo its own life: 'twas of some estate.

Couch we awhile, and mark. [Retiring with Horatio, Laer. What ceremony else?

Ham. That is Laertes, a very noble youth: mark.
Laer. What ceremony else?

First Priest. Her obsequies have been as far enlarged
As we have warranty: her death was doubtful;
And, but that great command o'ersways the order,
She should in ground unsanctified have lodged 241
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.

Laer. Must there no more he done?

First Priest.

No more be done:

We should profane the service of the dead
To sing a requiem and such rest to her