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Under the moon, can save the thing from death

This is but scratch'd withal. I'll touch my point

With this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly,

It may be death.

King. Let's further think of this,

Weigh what convenience both of time and means

May fit us to our shape. If this should fall,

And that our drift look through our bad performance.

'Twere better not assay'd. Therefore this project

Should have a back or second, that might hold

If this did blast in proof. Soft! let me see.

We'll make a solemn wager on your cunnings-

I ha't!

When in your motion you are hot and dry-

As make your bouts more violent to that end-

And that he calls for drink, I'll have prepar'd him

A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping,

If he by chance escape your venom'd stuck,

Our purpose may hold there.- But stay, what noise,

Enter Queen.

How now, sweet queen?

Queen. One woe doth tread upon another's heel,

So fast they follow. Your sister's drown'd, Laertes.

Laer. Drown'd! O, where?

Queen. There is a willow grows aslant a brook,

That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.

There with fantastic garlands did she come

Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,

That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,

But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them.

There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds

Clamb'ring to hang, an envious sliver broke,

When down her weedy trophies and herself

Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide

And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up;

Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes,

As one incapable of her own distress,

Or like a creature native and indued

Unto that element; but long it could not be

Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,

Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay

To muddy death.

Laer. Alas, then she is drown'd?

Queen. Drown'd, drown'd.

Laer. Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia,

And therefore I forbid my tears; but yet

It is our trick; nature her custom holds,

Let shame say what it will. When these are gone,

The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord.

I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze

But that this folly douts it. Exit.

King. Let's follow, Gertrude.

How much I had to do to calm his rage I

Now fear I this will give it start again;

Therefore let's follow.

Exeunt.

ACT V. Scene I. Elsinore. A churchyard.

Enter two Clowns, [with spades and pickaxes].

Clown. Is she to be buried in Christian burial when she wilfully

seeks her own salvation?

Other. I tell thee she is; therefore make her grave straight.

The crowner hath sate on her, and finds it Christian burial.

Clown. How can that be, unless she drown'd herself in her own defence?

Other. Why, 'tis found so.

Clown. It must be se offendendo; it cannot be else. For here lies

the point: if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act; and an

act hath three branches-it is to act, to do, and to perform;

argal, she drown'd herself wittingly.

Other. Nay, but hear you, Goodman Delver!

Clown. Give me leave. Here lies the water; good. Here stands the

man; good. If the man go to this water and drown himself, it is,

will he nill he, he goes- mark you that. But if the water come to

him and drown him, he drowns not himself. Argal, he that is not

guilty of his own death shortens not his own life.

Other. But is this law?

Clown. Ay, marry, is't- crowner's quest law.

Other. Will you ha' the truth an't? If this had not been a

gentlewoman, she should have been buried out o' Christian burial.

Clown. Why, there thou say'st! And the more pity that great folk

should have count'nance in this world to drown or hang themselves

more than their even-Christen. Come, my spade! There is no

ancient gentlemen but gard'ners, ditchers, and grave-makers.

They

hold up Adam's profession.

Other. Was he a gentleman?

Clown. 'A was the first that ever bore arms.

Other. Why, he had none.

Clown. What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture?

The Scripture says Adam digg'd. Could he dig without arms?