_Ham._ Dost thou think Alexander look'd o'this fashion i'the earth?
[_Gives the skull to HORATIO, who returns it to the grave-digger._]
_Ham._ To what base uses may we return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till it find it stopping a bung-hole?
_Hor._ 'Twere to consider too curiously,[27] to consider so.
_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 dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam; And why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer barrel?
Imperial Cæsar,[28] dead and turn'd to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away: O, that the earth, which kept the world in awe, Should patch a wall to expel the winter's flaw![29]
But soft! but soft! aside: Here comes the king, The queen, the courtiers: Who is this they follow? And with such maimèd rites?[30] This doth betoken The corse they follow did with desperate hand Fordo its own life:[31] 'Twas of some estate.[32] Couch we awhile, and mark.
_Enter_ Priests, &c., _in procession; the corpse of_ OPHELIA, LAERTES _and_ Mourners _following_; KING, QUEEN, _their_ Trains, _&c._
_Ham._ (R.) That is Laertes, A very noble youth.
Her obsequies have been as far enlarg'd As we have warranty: Her death was doubtful; And, but that great command o'ersways the order,[33] She should in ground unsanctified have lodged Till the last trumpet; for charitable prayers, Shards,[34] flints, and pebbles, should be thrown on her: Yet here she is allowed her virgin crants,[35] Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home Of bell and burial.[36]
_1st Priest._ No more be done: We should profane the service of the dead To sing a _requiem_,[37] and such rest to her As to peace-parted souls.
_Laer._ O, from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest,[38] A ministering angel shall my sister be, When thou liest howling.
(_Behind the grave_, C. _with the_ KING.)
I hop'd thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife; I thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid, And not have strew'd thy grave.
_Laer._ O, treble woe Fall ten times treble on that cursed head, Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense[39] Depriv'd thee of!--Hold off the earth a while, Till I have caught her once more in mine arms: