The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

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