Ham. How 'strangely'? 1 Clo. 'Faith, e'en with losing his wits. Ham. Upon what ground? 1 Clo. Why, here in Denmark. sexton here, man and boy, thirty years. I have been Ham. How long will a man lie i' the earth ere he rot? 1 Clo. I'faith, if a' be not rotten before a' die a' will last you some eight year or nine year: a tanner will last you nine year. Ham. Why he more than another? 1 Clo. Why, sir, his hide is so tanned with his trade that a' will keep out water a great while; and your water is a sore decayer of your dead body. Here's a skull now; this skull has lain in the earth three-andtwenty years. Ham. Whose was it? 1 Clo. A mad fellow's it was; whose do you think it was? Ham. Nay, I know not. 160 170 1 Clo. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! 'a 180 poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick's skull, the king's jester. Ham. This ? 1 Clo. 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 times; and now how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here 190 hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft.- Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were I 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 favor she must come; make her laugh at that. - Pr'ythee, Horatio, tell me one thing. 200 Hor. What's that, my lord? Ham. Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i' the earth? Hor. E'en so. Ham. And smelt so? puh! Hor. E'en so, my lord. [Puts down the skull 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 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 210 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? Imperial Cæsar, dead and turned to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away; Oh, that that earth, which kept the world in awe, But soft! but soft! aside! - here comes the king, Enter Priests, &c., in procession: the corpse of OPHE- The queen, the courtiers: who is that they follow? 220 The corse they follow did with desperate hand Fordo its own life; 'twas of some estate. Couch we a while, and mark. |