Ham. Why?

Clown. 'Twill not be feen in him; there the men

are as mad as he.

Ham. How came he mad?

Clown. Very itrangly, they fay.

Ham. How ftrangely?

Clown. 'Faith, e'en with lofing his wits.
Ham. Upon what ground?

Clown. Why, here, in Denmark. I have been fexton 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 corfes now-a-days, that will fcarce hold the laying in) he will laft 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 fo 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 fcull now has lain in the earth three and twenty years.

do

Ham. Whofe was it?

Clown. A whorefon mad fellow's it was; whofe you think it was?

Ham. Nay, I know not.

Clown. A peftilence on him for a mad rogue! he poured a flaggon of Rhenifh on my head once. This fame fcull, Sir, was Yorick's fcull, the King's jefter.

Ham. This ?

Clown. Even that.

Ham. Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jeft; of moft exquifite fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times: and

now how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rifes at it. Here hung thofe lips that I have kiffed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your fongs? your flathes 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 fhe muft come; make her laugh at that— Pr'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 fmelt fo, puh? [Smelling to the Scull Hor. Even fo, my Lord.

Ham. To what bafe ufes 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 curioufly to confider fo.

Ham. No, 'faith, not a jot: but to follow him thither with modefty enough, and likelihood to lead it; as thus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth to duft; the duft 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,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away:
Oh, that that earth, which kept the world in awe,
Should patch a wall, t' expel the winter's flaw !
But foft! but foft, awhile---here comes the King,

Enter King, Queen, LAERTES, and a Coffin, with Lords, and Priests, attendant.

The Queen, the Courtiers. What is that they follow,

And with fuch maimed rites? this doth betoken
The corfe they follow did with defperate hand
Foredo its own life; 'twas of fome estate.
Couch we awhile, and mark.

Laer. What ceremony else?

Ham. That is Laertes, a moft noble youth: mark--

Laer. What ceremony elfe?

Prieft. Her obfequies have been fo far enlarged
As we have warranty; her death was doubtful;
And but that great command o'ersways the order,
She fhould in ground unfanctified have lodged
'Till the laft trump. For charitable prayers,
Shards, flints, and pebbles, should be thrown on her;
Yet here the is allowed her virgin rites,

Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home
Of bell and burial.

Laer. Muft no more be done?
Prieft. No more be done!

We fhould profane the service of the dead
To fing a requiem, and fuch rest to her
As to peace-parted fouls.

Laer. Lay her i' th' the earth;
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets fpring! I tell thee, churlish priest,
A miniftring angel fhall my fifter be,

When thou lyeft howling.

Ham. What, the fair Ophelia !

Queen. Sweets to the fweet, farewel!

I hoped thou fhouldst have been my Hamlet's wife; I thought thy bride-bed to have decked, fweet maid, And not have ftrewed thy grave,

Laer. O treble woe

Fall ten times treble on that curfed head,
Whofe wicked deed thy moft ingenious fenfe
Deprived thee of! Hold off the earth a while,
'Till I have caught her once more in my arms;

[Laertes leaps into the Grave. Now pile your duft upon the quick and dead, 'Till of this flat a mountain you have made, To o'ertop old Pelion, or the skyish head Of blue Olympus.

Ham. [difcovering himself.] What is he, whofe griefs

Bear fuch an emphafis? whofe phrase of forrow Conjures the wandering ftars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? this is I,

Hamlet the Dane.

[Hamlet leaps into the Grave.

Laer. The devil take thy foul!

[Grappling with him.

Ham. Thou prayeft not well.

I pr'ythee, take thy fingers from my throat-
For though I am not fplenetive and rash,
Yet I have in me fomething dangerous,

Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand.
King. Pluck them afunder.-

Queen. Hamlet, Hamlet---

Hor. Good my Lord, be quiet.

[The Attendants part them.

Ham. Why, I will fight with him upon this.

Until my eye lids will no longer wag.

Queen. Oh my fon! what theme?

[theme,

Ham. I loved Ophelia; forty thousand brothers

Could not with all their quantity of love

Make up my fum. What wilt thou do for her?

King. O, he is mad, Laertes.

Queen. For love of God, forbear him.

Ham. Come, fhew me what thoul't do. Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't fast? woo't tear thy felf?

Woo't drink up eifel, eat a crocodile? (69)

(69) Would drink up Efill, eat a crocodile ?] This word bas through all the editions been diftinguished by Italic characters, as if it were the proper name of fome river; and fo, I dare fay, all the editors have from time to time understood it to be. But then this must be fome river in Denmark, and there is none there fo called, nor is there any near it in name that I know of, but Yffel, from which the province of Overyffell derives its title in the German Flanders. Besides, Hamlet is not propofing any impoffibilities to Laertes, as the drinking up a river would be; but he rather seems to mean, wilt thou refolve to do things the most shocking and distasteful to human nature? and behold, I am as refolute. I am perfuaded the Poet wrote;

Wilt drink up eifel, cat a crocodile?

i. e. Wilt thou fwallow down large draughts of vinegar? The propofition, indeed, is not very grand; but the doing it might be as diftafteful and unfavoury as cating the flesh of a crocodile. And now there is neither an impoflibility, nor an anticlimax; and the lownefs of the idea is in fome meaíure removed by the uncommon term. Chaucer has it in his Romaunt of the Rofe:

So evil-hewed was her coloure,

Her femed to have livid in langoure;
She was like thing for hungir bed,
That lad her life onely by dred
Knedin with eifel strong and egre;

And thereto fhe was lene and megre.

But left this authority fhould be thought of too long a date, and the word to have become obfolete in our Author's time, I'll produce a paffage where it is ufed by himself. In a pocm of his called 4 Complaint, he thus expreffes himself:

Whilft, like a willing patient, I will drink
Potions of eifel 'gainst my strong infection:
No bitterness, that I will bitter think,
No double penance to correct correction.
So, likewife, in Sir Thomas More's poems;
-Remember wherewithal,

How Chrift for thee fasted with eifel and gall.

Eifle, acetum, vinegar, faith Somner; and the word is acknowledged by Minihew, Skinner, Blunt, &c.