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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