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breeding, but to play at loggats with them? mine ache to think on't.
A pick-axe, and a spade, a spade,
For—and a shrowding sheet: 0, a pit of clay for to 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 shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery: Hum! This fellow might be in's time a great buyer 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 the inheritor himself have no more ? ha?
Hor. Not a jot more, my lord.
Ham. They are sheep, and calves, which seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow:Whose grave's this, sirrah?
Clown. Minc, sir.
O, a pit of clay for to be made
For such a guest is meet.
Ham. I think it be thine, indeed; for thou ly'st in't.
Clown. You lie out on't, sir, and therefore it is not yours: for my part, I do not lie in't, yet it is mine.
Har. Thou dost lie in't, to be in't, and say it is thine : 'tis for the dead, not for the quick; therefore thou ly’st.
Clown. 'Tis a quick lie, sir; 'twill away again, from me to you.
131 Ham. What man dost thou dig it for? Clown. 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, rest her soul, she's dead.
138 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. so near the heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe. -How long hast thou been a gravemaker?
Cloum. Of all the days i' the year, I came to't that day that our last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras, Ham. How long is that since ? Miij
Clown. 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 ?
Clown. Why, because he was mad: he shall recover his wits there; or, if he do not, 'tis no great matter there.
Clown. 'Twill not be seen in him there ; there the men are as mad as he,
Ham. How came he mad ?
Clown. Why, here in Denmark: I have been sex, ton here, man, and boy, thirty years.
Ham. How long will a man lie i’the earth ere hç rot?
Clown. '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
year. Ham. Why he more than another ?
172 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 sore decayer of your whoreson dead body. Here's a scull now has lain you i' the earth three and twenty years. Ham. Whose was it?
Clown. A whoreson mad fellow's it was; whose think it was ?
180 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 same scull, sir, was Yorick's scull, the king's jester.
Ham. This ?
Ham. 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 abhorr'd 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 chapfallen? 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. Pr’ythee, Horatio, tell me one thing.
Hor. What's that, my lord ?
Ham. Dost thou think, Alexander look'd o' this fashion i' the earth ?
Hor. E'en so.
Ham. To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust pf Alexander, 'till he find it stopping a bung-hole ?
Hor. 'Twere to consider too curiously, to consider
Ham. No, 'faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither with modesty enougli, and likelihood. to lead it: As thus; Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth to 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 ?
Imperial Cæsar, dead, and turn’d to clay,
Should patch a wall to expel the winter's flaw!
Enter the King, Queen, LAERTES, the Corpse of Ophe
LIA, with Lord's and Priests attending.
Laer. What ceremony else?
Ham. That is Laertes,