Hor. Custom hath made it to him a property of eafinefs. Ham. 'Tis even fo; the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense. Clown fings. "But age with his stealing steps "Hath clawed me in his clutch: " And hath shipped me into the land, "As if I had never been fuch." Ham. That skull had a tongue in it, and could fing once; how the knave jowles it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jaw-bone that did the first murder! this might be the pate of a politician, which this ass o'er-offices; 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 praised my Lord Such-a-one's horse, when he meant to beg it; might it not? Hor. Ay, my Lord. Ham. Why, even so: and now my Lady Worm's chapless, and knocked about the mazzard with a sexton's spade. Here's a fine revolution, if we had the trick to see't. Did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at loggats with them? mine ake to think on't. (68) (68) Did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at loggers with them? I have restored, from the old copies, the true word, loggats. We meet with it again in Ben Johnfon; Now are they tofling of his legs and arms A Tale of a Tub. Clown fings. "A pick-axe and a spade, a spade, Ham. There's another: why may not that be the scull of a lawyer? where be his quiddits now? his quillets, his cafes, his tenures, and his tricks ? why does he fuffer this rude kuave now to knock him about the fconce 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 hardly ly in this box; and must the inheritor himfelf have no more? ha? Hor. Not a jot more, my Lord. Ham. Is not parchment made of sheep-fkins? Ham. They are theep and calves that feek out "O, a pit of clay for to be made What fort of sport this was, I confefs, I do not know; but I find it in the list of unlawful games, prohibited by a statute 1 33 Henry VIII. cap. x. fect. 16. N2 Ham I think it be thine indeed, for thou lyest in't. Clown. You ly out on't, Sir, and therefore it is not yours; for my part, I do not ly in't, yet it is mine. Ham. Thou dost lie in't, to be in't, and say, 'tis thine: 'tis for the dead, not for the quick, therefore thou lyest. 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's to be buried in't? Clown. One that was a woman, Sir; but, reft her foul, she's dead. Ham. How absolute the knave is! we must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken note of it, the age is grown so picked, that the toe of the peafant comes fo near the heel of our courtier, that he galls his kibe. How long haft thou been a grave-maker? Ham. Of all the days i' th' year, I came to't that day that our last King Hamlet o'ercame Fortinbras. Ham. How long is that fince? Clown. Cannot you tell that? every fool can tell that: it was that very day that young Hamlet was born, he that was mad, and fent into England. Ham. Ay, marry, why was he fent into England? Clown. Why, because he was mad; he shall recover his wits there; or, if he do not, it's no great inatter there. ? Ham. Why? Clown. 'Twill not be seen in him; there the men are as mad as he. Ham. How came he mad? Clown. Very strangly, they say. Ham. How strangely? Clown. 'Faith, e'en with lofing 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 ly i' th' earth ere he rot? Clown. I'faith, if he be not rotten before he die, (as we have many pocky corses now-a-days, that will searce hold the laying in) he will last you fome eight year, or nine year; a tanner will last you nine years. Ham. Why he more than another? Clown. Why, Sir, his hide is so tanned with his trade, that he will keep out water a great while : and your water is a fore decayer of your whorefon dead body. Here's a scull now has lain in the 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! he poured a flaggon of Rhenish on my head once. This fame fcull, Sir, was Yorick's scull, the King's jefter. Ham. This? Clown. Even that. Ham. Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest; of most exquisite fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times: and now how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kiffed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your fongs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to fet the table in a roar? not one now to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen! now get you to my Lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour the must come; make her laugh at thatPr'ythee, Horatio, tell me one thing. Hor. What's that, my Lord? Ham. Doft thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i' th' earth? Hor. Even fo. Ham. And smelt so, puh? [Smelling to the Scull. Hor. Even so, my Lord. Ham. To what base uses we may return, Horatio! why may not imagination trace the noble duft of Alexander, 'till he find it stopping a bunghole? Hor. 'Twere to confider too curiously to confider fo. 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 to duft; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam: and why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not ftop a beer-barrel? Imperial Cæfar, dead and turned to clay, |