Part 24 (1/2)

1 Clown.

'Twill not he seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he.

Ham.

How came he mad?

1 Clown.

Very strangely, they say.

Ham.

How strangely?

1 Clown.

Faith, e'en with losing his wits.

Ham.

Upon what ground?

1 Clown.

Why, here in Denmark: I have been s.e.xton here, man and boy, thirty years.

Ham.

How long will a man lie i' the earth ere he rot?

1 Clown.

Faith, if he be not rotten before he die,--as we have many pocky corses now-a-days that will scarce hold the laying in,--he will last you some eight year or nine year: a tanner will last you nine year.

Ham.

Why he more than another?

1 Clown.

Why, sir, his hide is so tann'd with his trade that he will keep out water a great while; and your water is a sore decayer of your wh.o.r.eson dead body. Here's a skull now; this skull hath lain in the earth three-and-twenty years.

Ham.

Whose was it?

1 Clown.

A wh.o.r.eson, mad fellow's it was: whose do you think it was?

Ham.

Nay, I know not.

1 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?

1 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 times; 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-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.--Pr'ythee, Horatio, tell me one thing.

Hor.

What's that, my lord?

Ham.

Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fas.h.i.+on i' the earth?

Hor.

E'en so.

Ham.

And smelt so? Pah!

[Throws down the skull.]

Hor.

E'en so, my lord.

Ham.

To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the n.o.ble dust of Alexander till he find it stopping a bung-hole?

Hor.

'Twere to consider too curiously to consider so.