Page:Shakespeare - First Folio Faithfully Reproduced, Methuen, 1910.djvu/794

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The Tragedie of Hamlet.

Ham.
Why?

Clo.
'Twill not beseene in him, there the men are as
mad as he.

Ham.
How came he mad?

Clo.
Very strangely they say.

Ham.
How strangely?

Clo.
Faith e'ene with loosing his wits.

Ham.
Vpon what ground?

Clo.
Why heere in Denmarke: I haue bin sixeteene
heere, man and Boy thirty yeares.

Ham.
How long will a man lie'ith'earth ere he rot?

Clo.
Ifaith, if he be not rotten before he die (as we haue
many pocky Coarses now adaies, that will scarce hold
the laying in) he will last you some eight yeare, or nine
yeare. A Tanner will last you nine year e.

Ham.
Why he, more then another?

Clo.
Why sir, his hide is so tan'd with his Trade, that
he will keepe out water a great while. And your water,
is a sore Decayer of your horson dead body. Heres a Scull
now: this Scul, has laine in the earth three & twenty years.

Ham.
Whose was it?

Clo.
A whorson mad Fellowes it was;
Whose doe you think it was?

Ham.
Nay, I know not.

Clo.
A pestlence on him for a mad Rogue, a pou'rd a
Flaggon of Renish on my head once. This same Scull
Sir, this same Scull sir, was Yoricks Scull, the Kings Iester.

Ham.
This?

Clo.
E'ene that.

Ham.
Let me see. Alas poore Yorick, I knew him Horatio,
a fellow of infinite Iest; of most excellent fancy, he
hath borne me on his backe a thousand times. And how
abhorred my Imagination is, my gorge rises at it. Heere
hung those lipps, that I haue kist I know not how oft.
VVhere be your Iibes now? Your Gambals? Your
Songs? Your flashes of Merriment that were wont to
set the Table on a Rore? No one now to mock your own
Ieering? Quite chopfalne? Now get you to my Ladies
Chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thicke, to this
fauour she must come. Make her laugh at that: prythee
Horatio tell me one thing.

Hor.
What's that my Lord?

Ham.
Dost thou thinke Alexander lookt o'this
fashion i'th'earth?

Hor.
E'ene so.

Ham.
And smelt so? Puh.

Hor.
E'ene so, my Lord.

Ham.
To what base vses we may returne Horatio.
Why may not Imagination trace the Noble dust of
Alexander, till he find it stopping a bunghole.

Hor.
'Twere to consider: to curiously to consider so.

Ham.
No faith, not a iot. But to follow him thether
with modestie enough, & likeliehood to lead it; as thus.
Alexander died: Alexander was buried: Alexander
returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make
Lome, and why of that Lome (whereto he was conuerted)
might they not stopp a Beere-barrell?
Imperiall Cæsar, dead and turn'd to clay,
Might stop a hole to keepe the winde away.
Oh, that that earth, which kept the world in awe,
Should patch a Wall, t'expell the winters flaw.
But soft, but soft, aside; heere comes the King.

Enter King, Queen, Laertes, and a Coffin,
with Lords attendant.

The Queene, the Courtiers. Who is that they follow,
And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken,
The Coarse they follow, did with disperate hand,
Fore do it owne life; 'twas fome Estate.
Couch we a while, and mark.

Laer.
What Cerimony else?

Ham.
That is Laertes, a very Noble youth: Marke.

Laer.
What Cerimony else?

Priest.
Her Obsequies haue bin as farre inlarg'd.
As we haue warrantis, her death was doubtfull,
And but that great Command, o're-swaies the order,
She should in ground vnsanctified haue lodg'd,
Till the last Trumpet. For charitable praier,
Shardes, Flints, and Peebles, I should be throwne on her:
Yet heere she is allowed her Virgin Rites,
Her Maiden strewments, and the bringing home
Of Bell and Buriall.

Laer.
Must there no more be done?

Priest.
No more be done:
We should prophane the seruice of the dead,
To sing sage Requiem, and such rest to her
As to peace-parted Soules.

Laer.
Lay her i'th'earth,
And from her faire and vnpolluted flesh,
May Violets spring. I tell thee (churlish Priest)
A Ministring Angell shall my Sister be,
When thou liest howling?

Ham.
What, the faire Ophelia?

Queene.
Sweets, to the sweet farewell.
I hop'd thou should'st haue bin my Hamlets wife:
I thought thy Bride-bed to haue deckt (sweet Maid)
And not t'haue strew'd thy Graue.

Laer.
Oh terrible woer,
Fall ten times trebble, on that cursed head
Whose wicked deed, thy most Ingenious sence
Depriu'd thee of. Hold off the earth a while,
Till I haue caught her once more in mine armes:
Leaps in the graue. 
Now pile your dust, vpon the quick, and dead,
Till of this flat a Mountaine you haue made,
To o're top old Pelion, or the skyish head
Of blew Olympus.

Ham.
What is he, whose griefes
Beares such an Emphasis? whose phrase of Sorrow
Coniure the wandrinig Starres, and makes them stand
Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I,
Hamlet the Dane.

Laer.
The deuill take thy soule.

Ham.
Thou prai'st not well,
I prythee take thy fingers from my throat;
Sir though I am not Spleenatiue, and rash,
Yet haue I fomething in me dangerous,
Which let thy wisenesse feare. Away thy hand.

King.
Pluck them asunder.

Qu.
Hamlet, Hamlet.

Gen.
Good my Lord be quiet.

Ham.
Why I will fight with him vppon this Theme,
Vntill my eielids will no longer wag.

Qu.
Oh my Sonne, what Theame?

Ham.
I lou'd Ophelia; fortie thousand Brothers
Could not (with all there quanitie of Loue)
Make vp my summe. What wilt thou do for her?

King.
Oh he is mad Laertes,

Qu.
For loue of God forbeare him.

Ham.
Come show me what thou'lt doe.
Woo't weepe? Woo't fight? Woo't teare thy selfe?
Woo't drinke vp Esile, eate a Crocodile?

Ile