Act V - Chapter 1

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?

I’ll

put another question to thee. If thou answerest me not to the

purpose, confess thyself-

Other. Go to!

Clown. What is he that builds stronger than either the mason,

the

shipwright, or the carpenter?

Other. The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand

tenants.

Clown. I like thy wit well, in good faith. The gallows does

well.

But how does it well? It does well to those that do ill. Now,

thou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the

church. Argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To’t again,

come!

Other. Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a

carpenter?

Clown. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.

Other. Marry, now I can tell!

Clown. To’t.

Other. Mass, I cannot tell.

Enter Hamlet and Horatio afar off.

Clown. Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass

will

not mend his pace with beating; and when you are ask’d this

question next, say ’a grave-maker.’ The houses he makes lasts

till doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan; fetch me a stoup of

liquor.

[Exit Second Clown.]

[Clown digs and] sings.

In youth when I did love, did love,

Methought it was very sweet;

To contract- O- the time for- a- my behove,

O, methought there- a- was nothing- a- meet.

Ham. Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings

at

grave-making?

Hor. Custom hath made it in him a Property of easiness.

Ham. ’Tis e’en so. The hand of little employment hath the

daintier

sense.

Clown. (sings)

But age with his stealing steps

Hath clawed me in his clutch,

And hath shipped me intil the land,

As if I had never been such.

[Throws up a skull.]

Ham. That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once. How

the

knave jowls it to the ground,as if ’twere Cain’s jawbone,

that

did the first murther! This might be the pate of a

Politician,

which this ass now o’erreaches; one that would circumvent

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-one’s horse when he meant to beg it-

might

it not?

Hor. Ay, my lord.

Ham. Why, e’en so! and now my Lady Worm’s, chapless, and

knock’d

about the mazzard with a sexton’s spade. Here’s fine

revolution,

and we had the trick to see’t. Did these bones cost no more

the

breeding but to play at loggets with ’em? Mine ache to think

on’t.

Clown. (Sings)

A pickaxe and a spade, a spade,

For and a shrouding sheet;

O, a Pit of clay for to be made

For such a guest is meet.

Throws up [another skull].

Ham. There’s another. Why may not that be the skull of a

lawyer?

Where be his quiddits now, his quillets, his cases, his

tenures,

and his tricks? Why does he suffer this rude knave now to

knock

him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, 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 recoveries. Is this the fine

of

his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his

fine

pate full of fine dirt? Will his vouchers vouch him no more

of

his purchases, and double ones too, than the length and

breadth

of a pair of indentures? The very conveyances of his lands

will

scarcely lie in this box; and must th’ inheritor himself have

no

more, ha?

Hor. Not a jot more, my lord.

Ham. Is not parchment made of sheepskins?

Hor. Ay, my lord, And of calveskins too.

Ham. They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in

that. I

will speak to this fellow. Whose grave’s this, sirrah?

Clown. Mine, sir.

[Sings] O, a pit of clay for to be made

For such a guest is meet.

Ham. I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in’t.

Clown. You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore ’tis not yours.

For my part, I do not lie in’t, yet it is mine.

Ham. Thou dost lie in’t, to be in’t and say it is thine. ’Tis

for

the dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest.

Clown. ’Tis a quick lie, sir; ’twill away again from me to you.

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 mark.

[Retires with Horatio.]

Laer. What ceremony else?

Ham. That is Laertes,

A very noble youth. Mark.

Laer. What ceremony else?

Priest. Her obsequies have been as far enlarg’d

As we have warranty. 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 allow’d her virgin crants,

Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home

Of bell and burial.

Laer. Must there no more be done?

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’ th’ earth;

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh

May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest,

A minist’ring angel shall my sister be

When thou liest howling.

Ham. What, the fair Ophelia?

Queen. Sweets to the sweet! Farewell.

[Scatters 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 in the grave.

Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead

Till of this flat a mountain you have made

T’ o’ertop old Pelion or the skyish head

Of blue Olympus.

Ham. [comes forward] What is he whose grief

Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow

Conjures the wand’ring stars, and makes them stand

Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I,

Hamlet the Dane. [Leaps in after Laertes.

Laer. The devil take thy soul!

[Grapples with him].

Ham. Thou pray’st not well.

I prithee take thy fingers from my throat;

For, though I am not splenitive and rash,

Yet have I in me something dangerous,

Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand!

King. Pluck thein 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’t do.

Woo’t weep? woo’t fight? woo’t fast? woo’t tear thyself?

Woo’t drink up esill? 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,

Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou’lt mouth,

I’ll rant as well as thou.

Queen. This is mere madness;

And thus a while the fit will work on him.

Anon, as patient as the female dove

When that her golden couplets are disclos’d,

His silence will sit drooping.

Ham. Hear you, sir!

What is the reason that you use me thus?

I lov’d you ever. But it is no matter.

Let Hercules himself do what he may,

The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.

Exit.

King. I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.

Exit Horatio.

[To Laertes] Strengthen your patience in our last night’s

speech.

We’ll put the matter to the present push.-

Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son.-

This grave shall have a living monument.

An hour of quiet shortly shall we see;

Till then in patience our proceeding be.

Exeunt.