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“ sweet Lord; how dost thou, good Lord ?" This might be my Lord fuch-a-one's, that prais'd my Lord such-a-one's horse, when he meant to beg it. Might it not?

Hor. Ay, my Lord.

Ham. Why e'en fo; and now my lady Worm's; chapless, and knock'd about the 'mazzard with a sexton's spade. Here's a fine revolution, if we had the trick to see't. Did these bones coft no more the breeding, but to play at loggats with 'em? Mine ake to think on't.

Clown sings.
A pick-ax and a pade, a spade,

For and a jhrowding sheet !
0, a pit of clay for 10 be made

For such a guest is meet. Ham. There's another. Why may not that be the scull of a lawyer ? Where be his quiddits 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 sovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? Hum! This fellow might be in's time a great bayer 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 theinheritor himself have no more? Ha?

Hor. Not a jot more, my Lord.
Ham. Is not parchment made of sheep-kins ?
Hor. Ay, my Lord, and of calve-skins too.

Ham. They are theep and calves that seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow. Whose grave's this, tirrah? Clown. Mine, Sir

0, a pit of clay for to be made

For fuch a guest is meet.
Ham. I think it' he thine, indeed, for thoa lyeft in't.

Clown. You lye out on't, Sir, and therefore it is not yours; for my part, I do not lye in't, yet it is mine.

Ham. Thou dost lye in’t, to be in't, and say 'tis thine : ’tis for the dead, not for the quick ; therefore thou lieft.

Clows

to you.

Clown. 'Tis a quick lie, Sir, 'twill away again from me
Ham. What man dost thou dig it for ?
Clowon. For no man, Sir.
Ham. What woman then?
Clown. For none neither.
Ham. Who is to be buried in't?

Clown. One that was a woman, Sir? but reft 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, these three years I have taken note of it, the

age

is

grown so picked, that the toe of the peasant comes fo near the heel of our courtier, he galls his kibe. How long haft thon been a grave-maker?

Clown. Of all the days i' the year, I came to't that day that our last king Hamlet o'ercame Fortinbras.

Ham. How long is that since ?

Clown. Cannot you tell that? Every fool can tell that. It was that very day that young Hamlet was born, he that was mad, and sent into England.

Ham. Ay, marry, why was he sent into England? Clown. Why, because he was mad: he shall recover his wits there; or, if he do not, otis no great matter there.

Ham. Why?

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

Ham. How came lie mad ?
Clown. Very strangely, they say.
Ham. How strangely?
Clown. 'Faith, e'en with losing his wits.
Ham. Upon what ground?

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

Ham. How long will a man lie i' the earth ere he rot?

Clown. 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

years.
Ham. Why he more than another?

Clown. Why, Sir, his hide is so tann'd with his trade, that he will keep out water a great while : and your water

is a fore decayer of your whoreson dead body. Here's a scull now has lain in the earth three and twenty years.

llam. Who's was it?

Clown. A whoreson mad fellow's it was. Whofe do you think it was?

Ham. Nay, I know not.

Clown. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue ! he pour'd a flaggon of Rhenish on my head once. This fame fcull, Sir, was Yorick's scull, the king's jefter. +

Ham. This?
Clown. E'en chat.

Ham. Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jeft; 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 kiss'd 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.---Prythee, Horatio, tell me one thing.

Hor. What's that, Lord ?

Ham. Doft thou think Alexander look'd o' this fashion i' the earth?

Hor. E'en so.
Ham. And smelt so? Puh! [Smelling to the scull.
Hor. E'en so, my Lord.

Han. 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, Alexander returneth to duft; 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 !

Imperial Cafar, dead and turn’d to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.
Oh, that that earth, which kept the world in awe,
Should patch a wall, t'expel the winter's Maw!

No. XXXV.

my

No. XXXV.0 T H E L L O.
Act I. Scene III. Council Chamber. Duke,

Senators, &c.
Enter Brabantio, Othello, Caffio, lago, Roderigo,

and Officers.

Duke. ALIANT Othello, we must straight employ you Against the general enemy Ottoman. I did not see you; welcome, gentle fignior: [T. Brabantio. We lack'd your counsel, and your help, to night,

Bra. So did I yours. Good your Grace, pardon me:
Neither my place nor aught I heard of business,
Hath rais’d me from my bed : nor doth the general care
Take hold on me; for my particular grief
Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature,
That it ingluts and swallows other forrows,
And yet is still itself.

Duke. Why, what's the matter?
Bra. My daughter! oh, my daughter ! of
Sen. Dead?

To me;

She is abus'd, stol'n from me, and corrupted
By spells and medicines, bought of mountebanks;
For nature so preposterously to err,
Being not deficient, blind, nor lame of sense,
Sans witchcraft, could not

Duke. Whoe'er he be that in this foul proceeding
Hath thus beguild your daughter of herself,
And
you

of her, the bloody book of law
You shall yourself read in the bitter letter,
After your own sense; yea, though our proper son
Stood in your action.

Bra. Humbly I thank your Grace.
Here is the man, this Moor, whom now, it seems,
Your special mandate for the state affairs
Hath hither brought.

All. We're very sorry for’t.
Duke. What in your own part can you say to this ?

Bra.

Bra. Nothing, but this is fo.

Oth. Most potent, grave, and reverend figniors,
My very noble and approv'd good masters;
That I have ta’en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her;
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent; no more. Rude am I in speech,
And little bleft with the soft phrase of peace ;
For since these arms of mine had seven years pith,
Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have us'd
Their dearest action in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broils and battle ;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause,
In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,
I will a round, unvarnish'd tale deliver
Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,
What conjuration, and what mighty magic,
For such proceeding I am charg'd withal,
I won his daughter with,

Bra. A maiden, never bold;
Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion
Blush'd at itself: and the, in spite of nature,
of years, of country, credit, every thing,
To fall in love with that she fear'd to look on
It is a judgment maim'd, and most imperfect,
That will confess, perfection fo could err
Against all rules of nature ; and must be driven
To find out practices of cunning hell,
Why this should be. I therefore vouch again,
That with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood,
Or with some dram, conjur'd to this effect,
He wrought upon her:

Duke. To vouch this is no proof,
Without more certain and more overt test,
Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods
Of modern seeming, do prefer against him.

i Sen. Othello, fpeak; Did you by indirect and forced courses Subdue and poison this young maid's affections

Or

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