第 21 节

To contract O the time for a my behoue, O me thought there was nothing meete

Ham. Ha's this fellow no feeling of his businesse, that he sings at Graue-making? Hor. Custome hath made it in him a property of easinesse

Ham. 'Tis ee'n so; the hand of little Imployment hath the daintier sense

Clowne sings. But Age with his stealing steps hath caught me in his clutch: And hath shipped me intill the Land, as if I had neuer beene such

Ham. That Scull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: how the knaue iowles it to th' grownd, as if it were Caines Iaw-bone, that did the first murther: It might be the Pate of a Polititian which this Asse o're Offices: one that could circumuent God, might it not? Hor. It might, my Lord

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

Ham. Why ee'n so: and now my Lady Wormes, Chaplesse, and knockt about the Mazard with a Sextons Spade; heere's fine Reuolution, if wee had the tricke to see't. Did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at Loggets with 'em? mine ake to thinke on't

Clowne sings. A Pickhaxe and a Spade, a Spade, for and a shrowding-Sheete: O a Pit of Clay for to be made, for such a Guest is meete

Ham. There's another: why might not that bee the Scull of a Lawyer? where be his Quiddits now? his Quillets? his Cases? his Tenures, and his Tricks? why doe's he suffer this rude knaue now to knocke him about the Sconce with a dirty Shouell, 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 Recoueries: Is this the fine of his Fines, and the recouery of his Recoueries, to haue his fine Pate full of fine Dirt? will his Vouchers vouch him no more of his Purchases, and double ones too, then the length and breadth of a paire of Indentures? the very Conueyances of his Lands will hardly lye in this Boxe; and must the Inheritor himselfe haue no more? ha? Hor. Not a iot more, my Lord

Ham. Is not Parchment made of Sheep-skinnes? Hor. I my Lord, and of Calue-skinnes too

Ham. They are Sheepe and Calues that seek out assurance in that. I will speake to this fellow: whose Graue's this Sir? Clo. Mine Sir: O a Pit of Clay for to be made, for such a Guest is meete

Ham. I thinke it be thine indeed: for thou liest in't

Clo. You lye out on't Sir, and therefore it is not yours: for my part, I doe not lye in't; and 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 quicke, therefore thou lyest

Clo. 'Tis a quicke lye Sir, 'twill away againe from me to you

Ham. What man dost thou digge it for? Clo. For no man Sir

Ham. What woman then? Clo. For none neither

Ham. Who is to be buried in't? Clo. One that was a woman Sir; but rest her Soule, shee's dead

Ham. How absolute the knaue is? wee must speake by the Carde, or equiuocation will vndoe vs: by the Lord Horatio, these three yeares I haue taken note of it, the Age is growne so picked, that the toe of the Pesant comes so neere the heeles of our Courtier, hee galls his Kibe. How long hast thou been a Graue-maker? Clo. Of all the dayes i'th' yeare, I came too't that day that our last King Hamlet o'recame Fortinbras

Ham. How long is that since? Clo. Cannot you tell that? euery foole can tell that: It was the very day, that young Hamlet was borne, hee that was mad, and sent into England

Ham. I marry, why was he sent into England? Clo. Why, because he was mad; hee shall recouer his wits there; or if he do not, it's no great matter there

Ham. Why? Clo. 'Twill not be seene in him, there the men are as mad as he

Ham. How came he mad? Clo. Very strangely they say

Ham. How strangely? Clo. Faith e'ene with loosing his wits

Ham. Vpon what ground? Clo. Why heere in Denmarke: I haue bin sixeteene heere, man and Boy thirty yeares

Ham. How long will a man lie i'th' earth ere he rot? Clo. Ifaith, if he be not rotten before he die (as we haue many pocky Coarses now adaies, that will scarce hold the laying in) he will last you some eight yeare, or nine yeare. A Tanner will last you nine yeare

Ham. Why he, more then another? Clo. Why sir, his hide is so tan'd with his Trade, that he will keepe out water a great while. And your water, is a sore Decayer of your horson dead body. Heres a Scull now: this Scul, has laine in the earth three & twenty years

Ham. Whose was it? Clo. A whoreson mad Fellowes it was; Whose doe you thinke it was? Ham. Nay, I know not

Clo. A pestilence on him for a mad Rogue, a pour'd a Flaggon of Renish on my head once. This same Scull Sir, this same Scull sir, was Yoricks Scull, the Kings Iester

Ham. This? Clo. E'ene that

Ham. Let me see. Alas poore Yorick, I knew him Horatio, a fellow of infinite Iest; of most excellent fancy, he hath borne me on his backe a thousand times: And how abhorred my Imagination is, my gorge rises at it. Heere hung those lipps, that I haue kist I know not how oft. Where be your Iibes now? Your Gambals? Your Songs? Your flashes of Merriment that were wont to set the Table on a Rore? No one now to mock your own Ieering? Quite chopfalne? Now get you to my Ladies Chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thicke, to this fauour she must come. Make her laugh at that: prythee Horatio tell me one thing

Hor. What's that my Lord? Ham. Dost thou thinke Alexander lookt o'this fashion i'th' earth? Hor. E'ene so

Ham. And smelt so? Puh

Hor. E'ene so, my Lord

Ham. To what base vses we may returne Horatio. Why may not Imagination trace the Noble dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping a bunghole

Hor. 'Twere to consider: to curiously to consider so

Ham. No faith, not a iot. But to follow him thether with modestie enough, & likeliehood 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 conuerted) might they not stopp a Beere-barrell? Imperiall Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay, Might stop a hole to keepe the winde away. Oh, that that earth, which kept the world in awe, Should patch a Wall, t' expell the winters flaw. But soft, but soft, aside; heere comes the King. Enter King, Queene, Laertes, and a Coffin, with Lords attendant.

The Queene, the Courtiers. Who is that they follow, And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken, The Coarse they follow, did with disperate hand, Fore do it owne life; 'twas some Estate. Couch we a while, and mark

Laer. What Cerimony else? Ham. That is Laertes, a very Noble youth: Marke

Laer. What Cerimony else? Priest. Her Obsequies haue bin as farre inlarg'd. As we haue warrantie, her death was doubt