Hamlet, Act 5, Scene 1

Is she to be buried in Christian burial, when she wilfully seeks her own salvation?

Is she to have a Christian burial, when she deliberately went after her own salvation?

I tell thee she is, and therefore make her grave straight. The crowner hath sat on her, and finds it Christian burial.

I'm telling you she is, so dig her grave right away. The coroner has held an inquest on her and rules that it's a Christian burial.

How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defence?

How can that be, unless she drowned herself in self-defence?

Why, ’tis found so.

Well, that's the finding.

It must be se offendendo, it cannot be else. For here lies the point: if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act: and an act hath three branches. It is to act, to do, and to perform: argal, she drowned herself wittingly.

It must have been se offendendo, it can't be anything else. Because here's the point: if I drown myself knowingly, that shows an act, and an act has three branches. It is to act, to do, and to perform. Argal, she drowned herself knowingly.

Nay, but hear you, goodman delver,—

No, but listen, Mister Digger—

Give me leave. Here lies the water; good. Here stands the man; good. If the man go to this water and drown himself, it is, will he nill he, he goes,—mark you that. But if the water come to him and drown him, he drowns not himself. Argal, he that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life.

Let me finish. Here lies the water — good. Here stands the man — good. If the man goes to this water and drowns himself, then whether he wants to or not, he goes — mark that. But if the water comes to him and drowns him, he doesn't drown himself. Argal, a man who isn't guilty of his own death doesn't shorten his own life.

But is this law?

But is that the law?

Ay, marry, is’t, crowner’s quest law.

Yes indeed it is — coroner's inquest law.

Will you ha’ the truth on’t? If this had not been a gentlewoman, she should have been buried out o’ Christian burial.

Do you want the truth of it? If she hadn't been a gentlewoman, she'd have been buried outside of Christian burial.

Why, there thou say’st. And the more pity that great folk should have countenance in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their even Christian. Come, my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers: they hold up Adam’s profession.

Now you're talking. And the more pity that important people should have more licence in this world to drown or hang themselves than their fellow Christians. Come on, my spade. There are no gentlemen of older family than gardeners, ditchers and grave-makers: they carry on Adam's profession.

Was he a gentleman?

Was he a gentleman?

He was the first that ever bore arms.

He was the first man who ever bore arms.

Why, he had none.

Why, he had none.

What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture? The Scripture says Adam digg’d. Could he dig without arms? I’ll put another question to thee. If thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself—

What, are you a heathen? How do you understand the Scripture? The Scripture says Adam dug. Could he dig without arms? I'll put another question to you. If you don't answer me to the point, admit yourself—

Go to.

Go on.

What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?

Who is it that builds more strongly than the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?

The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.

The gallows-maker, because that frame outlasts a thousand tenants.

I like thy wit well in good faith, the gallows does well. But how does it well? It does well to those that do ill. Now, thou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the church; argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To’t again, come.

I honestly like your wit. The gallows does well. But how does it do well? It does well for those who do ill. Now, you do ill to say the gallows is built more strongly than the church; argal, the gallows may do well for you. Try again, come on.

Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?

Who builds more strongly than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?

Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.

Yes, tell me that, and then you can unhitch the oxen.

Marry, now I can tell.

Right, now I can tell you.

To’t.

Out with it.

Mass, I cannot tell.

By the Mass, I can't tell.

Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating; and when you are asked this question next, say ‘a grave-maker’. The houses he makes last till doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan; fetch me a stoup of liquor.

Don't beat your brains about it any more, since your slow donkey won't quicken his pace for a beating; and the next time you're asked this question, say "a grave-maker". The houses he makes last till doomsday. Go on, get yourself to Yaughan and fetch me a tankard of drink.

In youth when I did love, did love, Methought it was very sweet; To contract, O, the time for, a, my behove, O methought there was nothing meet.

In my youth when I was in love, in love, I thought it was very sweet; to make a contract, oh, the time, for my own advantage, oh, I thought there was nothing so fitting.

Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at grave-making?

Has this man no feeling for what he's doing, that he sings while digging a grave?

Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.

Habit has made it an easy matter for him.

’Tis e’en so; the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.

That's just it: the hand that does little work has the more delicate feeling.

[Sings.] But age with his stealing steps Hath claw’d me in his clutch, And hath shipp’d me into the land, As if I had never been such.

[Sings.] But age with his creeping steps has caught me in his grip, and has shipped me off into the ground, as if I had never been the man I was.

That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once. How the knave jowls it to th’ ground, as if ’twere Cain’s jawbone, that did the first murder! This might be the pate of a politician which this ass now o’er-offices, one that would circumvent God, might it not?

That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once. See how the rascal knocks it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jawbone, that committed the first murder! This could be the head of a politician, which this donkey now lords it over — someone who would outwit God, couldn't it?

It might, my lord.

It could, my lord.

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?

Or of a courtier, who could say, "Good morning, sweet lord! How are you, good lord?" This could be my lord So-and-so, who praised my lord So-and-so's horse when he meant to beg for it, couldn't it?

Ay, my lord.

Yes, my lord.

Why, e’en so: and now my Lady Worm’s; chapless, and knocked about the mazard with a sexton’s spade. Here’s fine revolution, an we had the trick to see’t. Did these bones cost no more the breeding but to play at loggets with ’em? Mine ache to think on’t.

Why, just so: and now it belongs to my Lady Worm; no jaw left, and banged about the head with a sexton's spade. Here's a fine turning of the wheel, if we had the knack of seeing it. Did these bones cost no more in the raising than to be used for a game of bowling pins? Mine ache to think about it.

[Sings.] A pickaxe and a spade, a spade, For and a shrouding-sheet; O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet.

[Sings.] A pickaxe and a spade, a spade, and also a burial sheet; oh, a pit of clay to be dug is what's fitting for such a guest.

There’s another. Why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddits now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? Why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce 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 scarcely lie in this box; and must the inheritor himself have no more, ha?

There's another. Why couldn't that be a lawyer's skull? Where are his subtleties now, his quibbles, his cases, his land titles, and his tricks? Why does he put up with this rough fellow knocking him about the head with a dirty shovel, and not charge him with assault? Hm. This fellow might in his day have been a great buyer of land, with his statutes, his bonds, his settlements, his double guarantors, his recoveries. Is this the end of his settlements, and the recovery of his recoveries — to have his fine head full of fine dirt? Will his guarantors guarantee him no more of his purchases, double ones as well, than the length and breadth of a pair of contracts? The deeds to his lands alone would scarcely fit in this box; and must the owner himself have no more room than this, eh?

Not a jot more, my lord.

Not a bit more, my lord.

Is not parchment made of sheep-skins?

Isn't parchment made of sheepskins?

Ay, my lord, and of calf-skins too.

Yes, my lord, and of calfskins too.

They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow.—Whose grave’s this, sir?

They're sheep and calves who look for security in that. I'll speak to this fellow.—Whose grave is this, sir?

Mine, sir. [Sings.] O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet.

Mine, sir. [Sings.] Oh, a pit of clay to be dug is what's fitting for such a guest.

I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in’t.

I think it is yours indeed, since you're lying in it.

You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore ’tis not yours. For my part, I do not lie in’t, yet it is mine.

You're lying outside it, sir, and so it isn't yours. As for me, I'm not lying in it, and yet it is mine.

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.

You are lying in it, since you're in it and say it's yours. It's for the dead, not for the living; so you're lying.

’Tis a quick lie, sir; ’t will away again from me to you.

It's a lively lie, sir; it will go away from me back to you again.

What man dost thou dig it for?

What man are you digging it for?

For no man, sir.

For no man, sir.

What woman then?

What woman, then?

For none neither.

For no woman either.

Who is to be buried in’t?

Who is to be buried in it?

One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she’s dead.

Someone who was a woman, sir; but, God rest her soul, she's dead.

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 peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier he galls his kibe.—How long hast thou been a grave-maker?

How precise the fellow is! We'll have to speak by the compass card, or his double meanings will trip us up. By the Lord, Horatio, these last three years I've noticed it: the times have grown so refined that the peasant's toe comes so close behind the courtier's heel that it rubs his chilblain.—How long have you been a grave-maker?

Of all the days i’ th’ year, I came to’t that day that our last King Hamlet o’ercame Fortinbras.

Of all the days in the year, I came to it on the very day that our late King Hamlet defeated Fortinbras.

How long is that since?

How long ago is that?

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.

Can't you tell that? Every fool can tell that. It was the very day young Hamlet was born — the one who's mad, and was sent to England.

Ay, marry, why was he sent into England?

Yes, indeed; why was he sent to England?

Why, because he was mad; he shall recover his wits there; or if he do not, it’s no great matter there.

Why, because he was mad. He'll get his wits back there; or if he doesn't, it's no great matter there.

Why?

Why?

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

It won't be noticed in him there; there the men are as mad as he is.

How came he mad?

How did he go mad?

Very strangely, they say.

Very strangely, they say.

How strangely?

How strangely?

Faith, e’en with losing his wits.

Honestly, just by losing his wits.

Upon what ground?

On what ground?

Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty years.

Why, here in Denmark. I have been a gravedigger here, man and boy, for thirty years.

How long will a man lie i’ th’earth ere he rot?

How long will a man lie in the earth before he rots?

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.

Honestly, if he isn't rotten before he dies — and we have many pox-ridden corpses these days that will hardly hold together long enough to be laid in the ground — he'll last you about eight or nine years. A tanner will last you nine years.

Why he more than another?

Why him longer than anyone else?

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 whoreson dead body. Here’s a skull now; this skull hath lain in the earth three-and-twenty years.

Why, sir, his skin is so tanned by his trade that it will keep out water a long while. And water is a terrible destroyer of your damned dead body. Here's a skull now; this skull has lain in the earth twenty-three years.

Whose was it?

Whose was it?

A whoreson, mad fellow’s it was. Whose do you think it was?

It was a damned, mad fellow's. Whose do you think it was?

Nay, I know not.

No, I don't know.

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.

A plague on him for a mad rascal! He poured a jug of Rhine wine on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick's skull, the King's jester.

This?

This one?

E’en that.

That very one.

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 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.—Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing.

Let me see. [Takes the skull.] Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio, a man of endless jokes, of the most wonderful imagination. He has carried me on his back a thousand times; and now, how disgusting it is to my mind! It makes me sick. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I don't know how many times. Where are your jeers now? Your leaps and capers? Your songs? Your bursts of fun that used to set the whole table roaring? Not one left now, to mock your own grinning? Your jaw completely dropped off? Now go to my lady's room, and tell her that though she paints her face an inch thick, she must come to this same look. Make her laugh at that. — Please, Horatio, tell me one thing.

What’s that, my lord?

What's that, my lord?

Dost thou think Alexander looked o’ this fashion i’ th’earth?

Do you think Alexander looked like this in the earth?

E’en so.

Just like this.

And smelt so? Pah!

And smelled like this? Ugh!

E’en so, my lord.

Just like this, my lord.

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

What low uses we may come back to, Horatio! Why shouldn't the imagination follow the noble dust of Alexander until it finds it plugging the hole of a barrel?

’Twere to consider too curiously to consider so.

It would be thinking about it far too minutely to think that way.

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 into 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? Imperious Caesar, dead and turn’d to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. O, that that earth which kept the world in awe Should patch a wall t’expel the winter’s flaw. But soft! but soft! aside! Here comes the King.

No, honestly, not in the least. We only need to follow him there with proper restraint, and with probability to guide us; like this. Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander turns back into dust; the dust is earth; out of earth we make clay; and why shouldn't they use that clay he was turned into to plug a beer barrel? Commanding Caesar, dead and turned to clay, Might plug a hole to keep the wind away. Oh, that the earth which once held the world in awe Should patch a wall to shut out the winter's blast. But wait! Wait! Stand aside! Here comes the King.

The Queen, the courtiers. Who is that they follow? And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken The corse they follow did with desperate hand Fordo it own life. ’Twas of some estate. Couch we awhile and mark.

The Queen, the courtiers. Who is it they are following? And with such cut-short rites? This is a sign that the body they follow took its own life with a desperate hand. It was someone of rank. Let's hide here a while and watch.

What ceremony else?

What other ceremony is there?

That is Laertes, a very noble youth. Mark.

That is Laertes, a very noble young man. Listen.

What ceremony else?

What other ceremony is there?

Her obsequies have been as far enlarg’d As we have warranties. Her death was doubtful; And but that great command o’ersways the order, She should in ground unsanctified have lodg’d Till the last trumpet. For charitable prayers, Shards, flints, and pebbles should be thrown on her. Yet here she is allowed her virgin rites, Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home Of bell and burial.

Her funeral rites have been extended as far as we are permitted. Her death was suspicious; and if orders from high authority hadn't overruled the rules, she would have been left in unconsecrated ground until the last trumpet. Instead of charitable prayers, broken pottery, flints and pebbles should have been thrown on her. Yet here she is granted her virgin's rites, the flowers strewn for a maiden, and being brought to her resting place with bell and burial.

Must there no more be done?

Must nothing more be done?

No more be done. We should profane the service of the dead To sing sage requiem and such rest to her As to peace-parted souls.

Nothing more can be done. We would be defiling the service for the dead if we sang a solemn requiem over her and prayed for her the rest that is given to souls that died at peace.

Lay her i’ th’earth, And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring. I tell thee, churlish priest, A minist’ring angel shall my sister be When thou liest howling.

Lay her in the earth, and from her lovely, undefiled flesh may violets grow. I tell you, rude priest, my sister will be an angel serving in heaven while you lie howling.

What, the fair Ophelia?

What, the lovely Ophelia?

[Scattering flowers.] Sweets to the sweet. Farewell. 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.

[Scattering flowers.] Sweet flowers for the sweet girl. Goodbye. I hoped you would have been my Hamlet's wife; I expected to decorate your bridal bed, sweet girl, not to strew flowers on your grave.

O, treble woe Fall ten times treble on that cursed head Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense Depriv’d thee of. Hold off the earth a while, Till I have caught her once more in mine arms. [Leaps into the grave.] Now pile your dust 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.

Oh, may triple sorrow fall ten times tripled on that cursed head whose wicked act robbed you of your fine mind. Hold back the earth a while, until I have held her in my arms once more. [He leaps into the grave.] Now heap your dust on the living and the dead, until you have made a mountain out of this level ground, one to rise higher than old Pelion or the sky-high summit of blue Olympus.

[Advancing.] What is he whose grief Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow Conjures the wand’ring stars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane. [Leaps into the grave.]

[Coming forward.] Who is this whose grief is spoken with such force? Whose words of sorrow call down the wandering planets and make them stop and listen like hearers struck with amazement? This is I, Hamlet the Dane. [He leaps into the grave.]

[Grappling with him.] The devil take thy soul!

[Grappling with him.] May the devil take your soul!

Thou pray’st not well. I prithee take thy fingers from my throat; For though I am not splenative and rash, Yet have I in me something dangerous, Which let thy wiseness fear. Away thy hand!

That's a bad prayer. Please take your fingers off my throat; for though I am not hot-tempered and reckless, still there is something dangerous in me, which your good sense should be afraid of. Take your hand away!

Pluck them asunder.

Pull them apart.

Hamlet! Hamlet!

Hamlet! Hamlet!

All. Gentlemen!

All. Gentlemen!

Good my lord, be quiet.

My good lord, calm down.

Why, I will fight with him upon this theme Until my eyelids will no longer wag.

Why, I will fight with him over this subject until my eyelids stop moving.

O my son, what theme?

Oh my son, what subject?

I lov’d Ophelia; forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?

I loved Ophelia; forty thousand brothers could not, with all the quantity of their love, match my total. What will you do for her?

O, he is mad, Laertes.

Oh, he is mad, Laertes.

For love of God forbear him!

For the love of God, be patient with him!

’Swounds, show me what thou’lt do: Woul’t weep? woul’t fight? woul’t fast? woul’t tear thyself? Woul’t drink up eisel? eat a crocodile? I’ll do’t. Dost thou come here to whine? To outface me with leaping in her grave? Be buried quick with her, and so will I. And if thou prate of mountains, let them throw Millions of acres on us, till our ground, Singeing his pate against the burning zone, Make Ossa like a wart. Nay, an thou’lt mouth, I’ll rant as well as thou.

By God's wounds, show me what you'll do: will you weep? Will you fight? Will you go without food? Will you tear yourself apart? Will you drink up vinegar? Eat a crocodile? I'll do it. Have you come here to whine? To outdo me by leaping into her grave? Be buried alive with her, and so will I. And if you babble about mountains, let them throw millions of acres on us, until our mound, scorching its head against the burning zone of the sky, makes Ossa look like a wart. No, if you'll shout, I'll rave just as well as you.

This is mere madness: And thus awhile the fit will work on him; Anon, as patient as the female dove, When that her golden couplets are disclos’d, His silence will sit drooping.

This is nothing but madness; the fit will work on him like this for a while; then soon, as patient as the mother dove when her pair of golden chicks have hatched, he will sit drooping in silence.

Hear you, sir; What is the reason that you use me thus? I lov’d you ever. But it is no matter. Let Hercules himself do what he may, The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.

Listen, sir; what is the reason you treat me like this? I always loved you. But it doesn't matter. Let Hercules himself do what he can, the cat will mew, and the dog will have his day.

I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.

Please, good Horatio, go and look after him.

Strengthen your patience in our last night’s speech; We’ll put the matter to the present push.— Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son. This grave shall have a living monument. An hour of quiet shortly shall we see; Till then in patience our proceeding be.

Hold firm to the patience I asked of you in our talk last night; we'll push the matter forward at once. — Good Gertrude, set some guard over your son. This grave shall have a living monument. We shall see a quiet hour soon; until then let us go on patiently.