Hamlet Act V Scene 1: First Clown

Hamlet: I will speak to this fellow. Whose grave’s this, sirrah? Mine, sir
Hamlet: I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in’t. You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore ’tis not yours. For my part, I do not lie in’t, yet it is mine.
Hamlet: 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. ‘Tis a quick lie, sir; ’twill away again from me to you.
Hamlet: What man dost thou dig it for? For no man, sir.
Hamlet: What woman then? For none, neither.
Hamlet: Who is to be buried in’t? One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she’s dead.
Hamlet: 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? Of all the days I’ the year, I came to’t that day that our last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.
Hamlet: How long is that since? 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.
Hamlet: Ay, marry, why was he sent to England? Why, because he was mad. A shall recover his wits there; or, if a do not, ’tis no great matter there.
Hamlet: Why? ‘Twill not be seen in him there. There the men are as mad as he.
Hamlet: How came he mad? Very strangely, they say.
Hamlet: How ‘strangely? Faith, e’en with losing his wits.
Hamlet: Upon what ground? Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty years.
Hamlet: How long will a man lie i’the earth ere he rot? I’faith, if he be not rotten before he die – as we have many pocky corses nowadays that will scarce hold the laying in – he will last you some eight year or nine year. A tanner will last you nine year.
Hamlet: Why he more than another? Why, sir, his hide is so tanned 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 lain in the earth three and twenty years.
Hamlet: Whose was it? A whoreson, mad fellow’s it was. Whose do you think it was?
Hamlet: Nay, I know not. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! A poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick’s skull, the King’s jester.
Hamlet: This? E’en that.
Hamlet: 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 times. And now how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. . . . 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 chop-fallen? 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.

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