The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, William Shakespeare [book recommendations based on other books txt] 📗

now my Lady Worm’s, chapless, and knock’d about the mazzard with a sexton’s spade. Here’s fine revolution, and we had the trick to see’t. Did these bones cost no more the breeding but to play at loggets with ‘em? Mine ache to think on’t.

Clown. (Sings)

A pickaxe and a spade, a spade,

For and a shrouding sheet;

O, a Pit of clay for to be made

For such a guest is meet.

Throws up [another skull].

 

Ham. There’s another. Why may not that be the skull 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 scarcely lie in this box; and must th’ inheritor himself have no more, ha?

Hor. Not a jot more, my lord.

Ham. Is not parchment made of sheepskins?

Hor. Ay, my lord, And of calveskins too.

Ham. They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow. Whose grave’s this, sirrah?

Clown. Mine, sir.

 

[Sings] O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet.

 

Ham. I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in’t.

Clown. You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore ‘tis not yours.

For my part, I do not lie in’t, 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; therefore thou liest.

Clown. ‘Tis a quick lie, sir; ‘twill away again from me to you.

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.

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?

Clown. Of all the days i’ th’ year, I came to’t that day that our last king Hamlet overcame 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 is mad, and sent into England.

Ham. Ay, marry, why was be sent into England?

Clown. Why, because ‘a was mad. ‘A shall recover his wits there; or, if ‘a do not, ‘tis no great matter there.

Ham. Why?

Clown. ‘Twill not he seen in him there. 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 ere he rot?

Clown. 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, I will last you some eight year or nine year. A tanner will last you nine year.

Ham. Why he more than another?

Clown. Why, sir, his hide is so tann’d with his trade that ‘a will keep out water a great while; and your water is a sore decayer of your whoreson dead body. Here’s a skull now. This skull hath lien you i’ th’ earth three-and-twenty years.

Ham. Whose was it?

Clown. A whoreson, mad fellow’s it was. Whose do you 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 same skull, sir, was Yorick’s skull, the King’s jester.

Ham. This?

Clown. 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 tunes. 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-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 fashion i’ th’ earth?

Hor. E’en so.

Ham. And smelt so? Pah!

[Puts down the skull.]

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 he find it stopping a bunghole?

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 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 Caesar, 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 t’ expel the winter’s flaw!

But soft! but soft! aside! Here comes the King-Enter [priests with] a coffin [in funeral procession], King, Queen, Laertes, with Lords attendant.]

 

The Queen, the courtiers. Who is this they follow?

And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken The corse they follow did with desp’rate hand Fordo it own life. ‘Twas of some estate.

Couch we awhile, and mark.

[Retires with Horatio.]

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’ersways the order, She should in ground unsanctified have lodg’d 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 be done?

Priest. No more be done.

We should profane the service of the dead To sing a requiem and such rest to her As to peace-parted souls.

Laer. Lay her i’ th’ earth;

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest, A minist’ring angel shall my sister be When thou liest howling.

Ham. What, the fair Ophelia?

Queen. Sweets to the sweet! Farewell.

[Scatters flowers.]

I hop’d thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife; I thought thy bride-bed to have deck’d, sweet maid, And not have strew’d thy grave.

Laer. O, treble woe

Fall ten times treble on that cursed head Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense Depriv’d thee of! Hold off the earth awhile, Till I have caught her once more in mine arms.

Leaps in the grave.

Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead Till of this flat a mountain you have made T’ o’ertop old Pelion or the skyish head Of blue Olympus.

Ham. [comes forward] What is he whose grief Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow Conjures the wand’ring stars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane. [Leaps in after Laertes.

Laer. The devil take thy soul!

[Grapples with him].

Ham. Thou pray’st not well.

I prithee take thy fingers from my throat; For, though I am not splenitive and rash, Yet have I in me something dangerous, Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand!

King. Pluck thein asunder.

Queen. Hamlet, Hamlet!

All. Gentlemen!

Hor. Good my lord, be quiet.

[The Attendants part them, and they come out of the grave.]

Ham. Why, I will fight with him upon this theme Until my eyelids will no longer wag.

Queen. O my son, what theme?

Ham. I lov’d Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers Could not (with all their quantity of love) Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?

King. O, he is mad, Laertes.

Queen. For love of God, forbear him!

Ham. ‘Swounds, show me what thou’t do.

Woo’t weep? woo’t fight? woo’t fast? woo’t tear thyself?

Woo’t drink up esill? eat a crocodile?

I’ll do’t. Dost thou come here to whine?

To outface me with leaping in her grave?

Be buried quick with her, and so will I.

And if thou prate of mountains, let them throw Millions of acres on us, till our ground, Singeing his pate against the burning zone, Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou’lt mouth, I’ll rant as well as thou.

Queen. This is mere madness;

And thus a while the fit will work on him.

Anon, as patient as the female dove

When that her golden couplets are disclos’d, His silence will sit drooping.

Ham. Hear you, sir!

What is the reason that you use me thus?

I lov’d you ever. But it is no matter.

Let Hercules himself do what he may,

The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.

Exit.

King. I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.

Exit Horatio.

[To Laertes] Strengthen your patience in our last night’s speech.

We’ll put the matter to the present push.-

Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son.-

This grave shall have a living monument.

An hour of quiet shortly shall we see; Till then in patience our proceeding be.

Exeunt.

 

Scene II.

Elsinore. A hall in the Castle.

 

Enter Hamlet and Horatio.

 

Ham. So much for this, sir; now shall you see the other.

You do remember all the circumstance?

Hor. Remember it, my lord!

Ham. Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep. Methought I lay Worse than the mutinies in the bilboes. Rashly-And prais’d be rashness for it; let us know, Our indiscretion sometime serves us well When our deep plots do pall; and that should learn us There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will-Hor. That is most certain.

Ham. Up from my cabin,

My sea-gown scarf’d about me, in the dark Grop’d I to find out them; had my desire, Finger’d their packet, and in fine withdrew To mine own room again; making so bold (My fears forgetting manners) to unseal Their grand commission; where I found, Horatio (O royal knavery!), an exact command, Larded with many several sorts of reasons, Importing Denmark’s health, and England’s too, With, hoo! such bugs and goblins in my life-That, on the supervise, no leisure bated, No, not to stay the finding of the axe, My head should be struck off.

Hor. Is’t possible?

Ham. Here’s the commission; read it at more leisure.

But wilt thou bear me how I did proceed?

Hor. I beseech you.

Ham. Being thus benetted round with villanies, Or I