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He digs and Sings.
In Youth when I did love, did love,

Methought it was very sweet,
To contračt O the time for a my behove,

O methought there was nothing meet. Ham. Has this Fellow no feeling of his business, that he fings at Grave-making?

Hor. Custom hath made it in him a property of eafinefs.

Ham. 'Tis e'en so; the hand of little imployment hath the daintier fense.

Clown fings.
But Age with his stealing steps,

Hath caught me in his clutch :
And hath pipped me intill the Land,

As if I never had been such. Ham. That Scull had a tongue in it, and could fing once; how the Knave jowles it to th' ground, as if it were Cain's Jaw-bone, that did the first murther : It might be the Pate of a Politician which this Ass o'er-offices; one that could circumvent God, might it not?

Hor. It might, my Lord.

Ham. Or of a Courtier, which could say, Good Morrow, fweet Lord; how doft thou, good Lord? this might be my Lord such a one, that prais'd my Lord such a ones Horse, when he meant to beg it; might it not?

Hor. Ay, my Lord.

Ham. Why e'en fo : and now 'tis my Lady Worm's, Chap less, and knockt about the Mazzard with a Sexton's Spade, here's fine Revolution, if we had the trick to see't. Did these bones coft no more the breeding, but to play at Log. gers with 'em? mine ake to think on't.

Clown sings.
A Pick-axe and a Spade, a Spade,

For and a sbrowding Sheet!
O a Pit of Clay for to be made ;

For such a Guest is meet. Ham. There's another: why might not that be the Scull of a Lawyer? where be his Quiddits now? his Quillets?

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his Cases ? his Tenures, and his Tricks? why does he suffer
this rude Knave now to knock him about the Sconce
with a dirty Slovel, and will not tell him of his Axion of
Battery? hum. This Fellow might be in's time a great buyer
of Land, with his Statures, his Recognizarces, 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 lye in this Box; and must the Inheritor
himself have no more? ha?

Hor. Not a jot more, my Lord.
Ham. Is not Parchment made of Sheep-skins?
Hor. Ay my Lord, and of Calve-skins too.

Ham. They are Sheep and Calves that seek out assurance
in that. I will speak to this Fellow : whose. Grave's this,
Clown. Mine, 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 lieft in't.

Clown. You lie out on't, Sir, and therefore it is 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 'tis thine, 'tis for the dead, and not for the qnick, therefore thou lyft.

Clown. 'Tis a quick lie, Sir, 'twill away again from me to you.

Ham. What Man ost 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.

Ham. How absolute the Knave is ? we mult speak by the Card, or equivocation will follow us: by the Lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken note of it, the Age is grown so picked, and the toe of the Peasant comes to near the heel of our Countier, he galls his Kibe. How long haft thou been a Grave-maker?



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Clown. Of all the days i'th' 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 the 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, it's no great matter there.

Ham. Why?

Clown. 'Twill not be seen in him, there the Men are as mad as he.

Ham. How came he 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'th' Earth e'er he rot ?

Clown. I'faith, if he be not rotten before he dye, (as we have many pocky Coarses now adays, 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 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: this Scull has lain in the Earth three and twenty Years.

Ham. Whose was it?

Clown. A whoreson mad Fellow's it was; Whose do


think it was? Ham. Nay, I know not.

Clown. A Pestilence on him for a mad Rogue, a pour'd a Flagon of Rhenish on my Head once. This fame Scull, Sir, this fame Scull, Sir, was Torick's Scull, the King's Jefter.

Ham. This?
Clown. E'en that.

Ham. Let me see. Alas poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatia, a Fellow of infinite Jest; of most excellent fancy, he hath


born me on his back a thousand times: And how abhorred my imagination is now, 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 Gambals? Your Songs Your flashes of Merriment that were wont to set the Table on a Roar? No one now to mock your own Jeering? Quite chop fall’n? 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 look'd o’this fafhion it'th' Earth?

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

Ham. To what base uses we may return, Horatio. Why may not imagination trace the noble Dust of Alexander, 'till e find it stopping a bung-hole? Hor. 'Twere to consider too curiously, to confider fo.

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 into dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make Lome, and why of that Lome 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 flaw. But soft! but soft! alide here comes the King. Enter King, Queen, Laertes, and a Coffin, with Lords and

Priests Attendant.
The Queen, the Courtiers. What is't that they follow,
And with such maimed Righes? This doth betoken,
The Coarse they follow, did with desperate hand
Fore-do it's own Life ; 'twas fome Estate.
Couch we a while, and mark.

Laer. What Ceremony else?
Ham. That is Laertes, a very noble Youth : Mark
Laer. What Ceremony else?


Priest. Her Obsequies have been as far enlarg'd,
As we have warranty; her death was doubtful,
And but that great command o'er-sways the order,
She should in ground unsan&ified have lodgod,
'Till the last Trumpet. For charitable Prayer,
Shards, Flints, and Pebbles, should be thrown on her;
Yet here he is allowed her Virgin Rites,
Her Maiden strewments, and the bringing home
Of Bell and Burial.

Laer. Must there no more be done ?

Priest. No more be done :
We should prophane the service of the dead,
To fing sage Requiem, and such rest to her
As to peace-parted Souls.

Laer. Lay her i'th' earth;
And from her fair and unpolluted flefh,
May Violets spring. I tell thee, churlish Priest,
A Ministring Angel Mall my Sister bez
When thou liest howling.

Ham. What, the fair Ophelia !

Queen. Sweets, to thee sweet, farewell,
I hop'd thou wouldst have been my Hamlet's Wife;
I thought thy Bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet Maid,
And not t'have strew'd thy Grave.

Laer, terrible wooer !
Fall tentimes treble woes on that curs'd head,
Whose wicked deed, thy most ingenious sense
Depriv'd thee of. Hold off the Earth a while;
'Till I have caught her once more in my arms :

[Laertes leaps into the Grave. Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead, 'Till of this flat a mountain you have made, To o'er-top old Pelion, or the skyish head Of blue Olympus.

Ham. What is he, whose griefs
Bear such an Emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow
Conjures the wandring Stars, and makes them ftand
Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I,

[Hamlet leaps into the Grave. Hamlet the Dane. Laer. The Devil take thy Soul. [Grappling with him.


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