Hamlet, Act 5, Scene 1

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

Is she to be given a Christian burial, when she deliberately went looking for 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 at once. The coroner has held an inquest on her and ruled that she gets 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 verdict.

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 on purpose, that proves an act, and an act has three branches — it is to act, to do, and to perform. Therefore she drowned herself on purpose.

Nay, but hear you, goodman delver,—

No, but listen to me, 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 — note that. But if the water comes to him and drowns him, he doesn't drown himself. Therefore, the man who isn't guilty of his own death doesn't cut short 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 lady of rank, she would have been buried outside Christian ground.

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.

There, now you're talking. And it's all the more a 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, ditch-diggers and grave-makers: they carry on Adam's trade.

Was he a gentleman?

Was he a gentleman?

He was the first that ever bore arms.

He was the first man ever to bear 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 read the Scripture? The Scripture says Adam dug. Could he dig without arms? I'll put another question to you. If you don't give me a sensible answer, admit you're—

Go to.

Get on with it.

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

Who is it that builds stronger than the mason, the shipbuilder, or the carpenter?

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

The gallows-maker, because that structure 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 by those who do badly. Now, you do badly to say the gallows is built stronger than the church; therefore the gallows may do well by you. Have another go at it, come on.

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

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

Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.

Yes, tell me that, and then you can stop work for the day.

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, because your slow donkey won't go faster for a beating. And the next time you're asked this question, say "a grave-maker". The houses he builds last until 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 match, oh, the time was right for my own good, oh, I thought there was nothing so fitting.

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

Has this fellow no sense of 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 something he can do without a thought.

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

That's exactly it: the hand that works little 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 old age with his creeping steps has caught me in his grip, and has shipped me off into the earth, as if I had never been young at all.

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. Look how the rascal knocks it against the ground, as if it were Cain's jawbone, the one that did the first murder! This might be the head of a schemer that this donkey is now lording it over — someone who would try to outwit God, mightn't it?

It might, my lord.

It might, 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 a courtier's, one who could say, "Good morning, sweet lord! How are you, good lord?" This might be my lord so-and-so, who praised my lord so-and-so's horse when he meant to ask for it as a gift, mightn'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, with its jaw gone, and knocked about the head with a gravedigger's spade. Here's a fine turn of the wheel, if only we had the knack of seeing it. Did these bones cost so little to rear that they're only good for playing bowls with? Mine ache to think of 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 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 fine distinctions now, his quibbles, his cases, his property titles and his tricks? Why does he let this rough fellow knock him about the head with a filthy shovel, and not charge him with assault? Hmm. This fellow might in his day have been a great buyer of land, with his bonds, his sureties, his final settlements, his double guarantors, his transfers of title. Is this the end of all his settlements, and the recovery of all his recoveries — to have his fine head full of fine dirt? Will his guarantors guarantee him no more of his purchases, even the double ones, than the length and breadth of a pair of contracts? The mere title deeds to his lands will hardly fit in this box; and must the owner himself have no more room than that, eh?

Not a jot more, my lord.

Not the smallest bit more, my lord.

Is not parchment made of sheep-skins?

Isn't parchment made out of sheepskins?

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

Yes, my lord, and out 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 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, 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 do lie in it, by being in it and saying it's yours. It's for the dead, not for the living; so you lie.

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

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

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 rascal is! We'll have to speak with exact accuracy, or double meanings will be the ruin of us. By the Lord, Horatio, these past 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 started on the day 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 doesn't matter much there.

Why?

Why?

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

It won't show 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 grounds?

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

Why, here in Denmark. I've been a gravedigger here, since I was a boy and as a man, thirty years.

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

How long will a man lie in the ground 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—as we have many corpses eaten with disease nowadays that will hardly hold together long enough to be laid in—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 good long while. And water is a terrible destroyer of your wretched 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 belonged to a wretched, mad fellow. 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 rogue! 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. [He 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 think of! It turns my stomach. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I don't know how many times. Where are your jokes 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? Has your jaw dropped away completely? 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 ground?

E’en so.

Just so.

And smelt so? Pah!

And smelt like this? Ugh!

E’en so, my lord.

Just so, 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 can'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.

That would be examining it 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 can follow him there quite moderately, 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 with that clay he was turned into might they not stop up a beer barrel? The mighty Caesar, dead and turned to clay, might plug a hole to keep the wind out. Oh, that the same earth which held the world in terror should patch a wall to shut out the winter's gust. But quiet! quiet! 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 ceremonies? This shows that the body they follow took its own life with a desperate hand. It was someone of high rank. Let's hide 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. Watch.

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 allowed. Her death was suspicious; and if orders from high authority had not overruled the rules, she would have been laid in unholy ground until the last trumpet. Instead of merciful prayers, broken pottery, stones and pebbles would have been thrown on her. Yet here she is granted her maiden's rites, the flowers strewn for a virgin, and the bell and burial that bring her home.

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. We would be defiling the burial service to sing a solemn requiem and pray for the same rest for her as for 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 ground, and from her beautiful, undefiled flesh may violets grow. I tell you, rude priest, my sister will be an angel serving in heaven while you lie howling in hell.

What, the fair Ophelia?

What, the beautiful 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.

[She scatters flowers.] Sweet flowers to the sweet girl. Goodbye. I hoped you would have been my Hamlet's wife; I expected to decorate your marriage 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 brilliant mind. Hold back the earth a while, until I have held her in my arms once more. [He leaps into the grave.] Now pile your dust on the living and the dead, until you have made a mountain out of this level ground, to rise higher than old Pelion or the sky-touching 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.]

[He steps forward.] Who is this whose grief is spoken with such force? whose words of sorrow charm the wandering planets and make them stop still like listeners struck with amazement? This is I, Hamlet the Dane. [He leaps into the grave.]

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

[He grapples 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 of them: Gentlemen!

Good my lord, be quiet.

My good lord, be calm.

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

Why, I will fight with him on this subject until my eyelids can no longer move.

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 their amount of 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 will do: will you weep? will you fight? will you fast? 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, till our mound, scorching its head against the fiery zone of the sky, makes Ossa look like a wart. Well, if you'll rave, I'll rave 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 absolute madness; and the fit will work on him like this for a while; then at once, as gentle as a mother dove when her pair of golden chicks have hatched, his silence will settle on him and he'll droop.

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

I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.

Please, good Horatio, go and attend on 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 on to your patience by remembering what we talked about last night; we'll bring the matter to an immediate test.—Good Gertrude, set someone to watch over your son. This grave shall have a lasting monument. We'll see a quiet hour before long; until then let us act with patience.