Hamlet

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 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-fallen? 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 looked o' this fashion i' the earth?

Hor.

E'en so.

Ham.

And smelt so? Pah!

[Throws 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 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 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 to expel the winter's flaw!

But soft! but soft! aside!--Here comes the king.

[Enter priests, etc, in procession; the corpse of Ophelia, Laertes, and Mourners following; King, Queen, their Trains, etc.]

The queen, the courtiers: who is that they follow?

And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken

The corse they follow did with desperate hand

Fordo it own life: 'twas of some estate.

Couch we awhile and mark.

[Retiring with Horatio.]

Laer.

What ceremony else?

Ham.

That is Laertes,

A very noble youth: mark.

Laer.

What ceremony else?

1 Priest.

Her obsequies have been as far enlarg'd

As we have warranties: 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 allowed her virgin rites,

Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home

Of bell and burial.

Laer.

Must there no more be done?

1 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' the earth;--

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh

May violets spring!--I tell thee, churlish priest,

A ministering angel shall my sister be

When thou liest howling.

Ham.

What, the fair Ophelia?

Queen.

Sweets to the sweet: farewell.

[Scattering 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 into the grave.]

Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead,

Till of this flat a mountain you have made,

To o'ertop old Pelion or the skyish head

Of blue Olympus.

Ham.

[Advancing.]

What is he whose grief

Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow

Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand

Like wonder-wounded hearers? this is I,

Hamlet the Dane.

[Leaps into the grave.]

Laer.

The devil take thy soul!

[Grappling with him.]

Ham.

Thou pray'st not well.

I pr'ythee, take thy fingers from my throat;

For, though I am not splenetive and rash,

Yet have I in me something dangerous,

Which let thy wiseness fear: away thy hand!

King.

Pluck them 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'lt do:

Woul't weep? woul't fight? woul't fast? woul't tear thyself?

Woul't drink up eisel? 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,