The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

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