Chapter: ACT V. Scene I.
Elsinore. A churchyard.

Enter two Clowns, [with spades and pickaxes].

  Clown. Is she to be buried in Christian burial when she
wilfully
    seeks her own salvation?
  Other. I tell thee she is; therefore make her grave straight.
    The crowner hath sate on her, and finds it Christian burial.
  Clown. How can that be, unless she drown'd herself in her own
    defence?
  Other. Why, 'tis found so.
  Clown. 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 drown'd herself wittingly.
  Other. Nay, but hear you, Goodman Delver!
  Clown. 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.
  Other. But is this law?
  Clown. Ay, marry, is't- crowner's quest law.
  Other. Will you ha' the truth an't? If this had not been a
    gentlewoman, she should have been buried out o' Christian
burial.
  Clown. Why, there thou say'st! And the more pity that great
folk
    should have count'nance in this world to drown or hang
themselves
    more than their even-Christian. Come, my spade! There is no
    ancient gentlemen but gard'ners, ditchers, and grave-makers.
They
    hold up Adam's profession.
  Other. Was he a gentleman?
  Clown. 'A was the first that ever bore arms.
  Other. Why, he had none.
  Clown. 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-
  Other. Go to!
  Clown. What is he that builds stronger than either the mason,
the
    shipwright, or the carpenter?
  Other. The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand
    tenants.
  Clown. 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!
  Other. Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a
    carpenter?
  Clown. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.
  Other. Marry, now I can tell!
  Clown. To't.
  Other. Mass, I cannot tell.

                 Enter Hamlet and Horatio afar off.

  Clown. Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass
will
    not mend his pace with beating; and when you are ask'd this
    question next, say 'a grave-maker.' The houses he makes lasts
    till doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan; fetch me a stoup of
    liquor.
                                            [Exit Second Clown.]


                       [Clown digs and] sings.

       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- a- was nothing- a- meet.

  Ham. Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings
at
    grave-making?
  Hor. Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.
  Ham. 'Tis e'en so. The hand of little employment hath the
daintier
    sense.
  Clown. (sings)
         But age with his stealing steps
           Hath clawed me in his clutch,
         And hath shipped me intil the land,
           As if I had never been such.
                                            [Throws up a skull.]

  Ham. That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once. How
the
    knave jowls it to the ground,as if 'twere Cain's jawbone,
that
    did the first murther! This might be the pate of a
Politician,
    which this ass now o'erreaches; one that would circumvent
God,
    might it not?
  Hor. It might, my lord.
  Ham. 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
    prais'd my Lord Such-a-one's horse when he meant to beg it-
might
    it not?
  Hor. Ay, my lord.
  Ham. Why, e'en so! and now my Lady Worm's, chapless, and
knock'd
    about the mazzard with a sexton's spade. Here's fine
revolution,
    and 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.
  Clown. (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.
                                      Throws up [another skull].

  Ham. 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 th' inheritor himself have
no
    more, ha?
  Hor. Not a jot more, my lord.
  Ham. Is not parchment made of sheepskins?
  Hor. Ay, my lord, And of calveskins too.
  Ham. They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in
that. I
    will speak to this fellow. Whose grave's this, sirrah?
  Clown. Mine, sir.

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

  Ham. I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in't.
  Clown. You lie out on't, sir, and therefore 'tis not yours.
    For my part, I do not lie in't, yet it is mine.
  Ham. 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.
  Clown. 'Tis a quick lie, sir; 'twill away again from me to you.
  Ham. What man dost thou dig it for?
  Clown. For no man, sir.
  Ham. What woman then?
  Clown. For none neither.
  Ham. Who is to be buried in't?
  Clown. One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she's
dead.
  Ham. How absolute the knave is! We must speak by the card, or
    equivocation will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, this 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?
  Clown. Of all the days i' th' year, I came to't that day that
our
    last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.
  Ham. How long is that since?
  Clown. 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.
  Ham. Ay, marry, why was be sent into England?
  Clown. Why, because 'a was mad. 'A shall recover his wits
there;
    or, if 'a do not, 'tis no great matter there.
  Ham. Why?
  Clown. 'Twill not he seen in him there. There the men are as
mad as
    he.
  Ham. How came he mad?
  Clown. Very strangely, they say.
  Ham. How strangely?
  Clown. Faith, e'en with losing his wits.
  Ham. Upon what ground?
  Clown. Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton here, man and
boy
    thirty years.
  Ham. How long will a man lie i' th' earth ere he rot?
  Clown. Faith, if 'a be not rotten before 'a die (as we have
many
    pocky corses now-a-days that will scarce hold the laying in,
I
    will last you some eight year or nine year. A tanner will
last
    you nine year.
  Ham. Why he more than another?
  Clown. Why, sir, his hide is so tann'd with his trade that 'a
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
lien
    you i' th' earth three-and-twenty years.
  Ham. Whose was it?
  Clown. A whoreson, mad fellow's it was. Whose do you think it
was?
  Ham. Nay, I know not.
  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?
  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- fall'n? 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.
  Hor. What's that, my lord?
  Ham. Dost thou think Alexander look'd o' this fashion i' th'
earth?
  Hor. E'en so.
  Ham. And smelt so? Pah!
                                          [Puts down the skull.]
  Hor. E'en so, my lord.
  Ham. To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not
    imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till he find it
    stopping a bunghole?
  Hor. 'Twere to consider too curiously, 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 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-

    Enter [priests with] a coffin [in funeral procession], King,
             Queen, Laertes, with Lords attendant.]

    The Queen, the courtiers. Who is this they follow?
    And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken
    The corse they follow did with desp'rate hand
    Fordo it own life. 'Twas of some estate.
    Couch we awhile, and mark.
                                         [Retires with Horatio.]

  Laer. What ceremony else?
  Ham. That is Laertes,
    A very noble youth. Mark.
  Laer. What ceremony else?
  Priest. 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,
    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 allow'd her virgin rites,
    Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home
    Of bell and burial.
  Laer. Must there no more be done?
  Priest. No more be done.
    We should profane the service of the dead
    To sing a requiem and such rest to her
    As to peace-parted souls.
  Laer. 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.
  Ham. What, the fair Ophelia?
  Queen. Sweets to the sweet! Farewell.
                                             [Scatters flowers.]
    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
    Depriv'd thee of! Hold off the earth awhile,
    Till I have caught her once more in mine arms.
                                             Leaps in the grave.
    Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead
    Till of this flat a mountain you have made
    T' o'ertop old Pelion or the skyish head
    Of blue Olympus.
  Ham. [comes forward] 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 in after Laertes.
  Laer. The devil take thy soul!
                                            [Grapples with him].
  Ham. Thou pray'st not well.
    I prithee take thy fingers from my throat;
    For, though I am not splenitive and rash,
    Yet have I in me something dangerous,
    Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand!
  King. Pluck them asunder.
  Queen. Hamlet, Hamlet!
  All. Gentlemen!
  Hor. Good my lord, be quiet.
             [The Attendants part them, and they come out of the
                                                         grave.]
  Ham. Why, I will fight with him upon this theme
    Until my eyelids will no longer wag.
  Queen. O my son, what theme?
  Ham. 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?
  King. O, he is mad, Laertes.
  Queen. For love of God, forbear him!
  Ham. 'Swounds, show me what thou't do.
    Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't fast? woo't tear thyself?
    Woo't drink up esill? 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.
  Queen. This is mere madness;
    And thus a while 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.
  Ham. 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.
Exit.
  King. I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.
                                                   Exit Horatio.
    [To Laertes] 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.
                                                         Exeunt.

 Two gravediggers are in a cemetery, discussing the Christian burial accorded to Ophelia. Though her funeral is not allowed in the church, she has been given a plot in its graveyard. As they work, the gravediggers are clownish, telling one another riddles and making jokes. Hamlet and Horatio enter as one gravedigger begins to sing happily. Hamlet watches as the gravedigger picks up a skull from the grave and throws it on the ground. Hamlet's thoughts turn to the inevitability of death; he imagines the people whose bones now lie in the graveyard and wonders what kind of lives they led. When Hamlet talks to one of the gravediggers, he learns that some of the bones belong to Yorick, the old court jester. Hamlet reminisces about the fact that Yorick had often shown him affection, carrying him on his back; Though he once had the power to make everyone in the court happy, the old jester is now nothing but a pile of bones. Hamlet is impressed with the leveling force of death. As the funeral procession approaches, Hamlet and Horatio retire some distance away from the grave in order to observe and not be seen. Hamlet is quick to notice that the burial is for somebody who has committed suicide, for there are no religious rites of a Christian funeral and no requiem is sung. Hamlet then spies Laertes, who commands the coffin to be lowered in the pit. He says that when the casket is covered with mud, violets are sure to grow from it. He also claims that his beloved sister will still be an angel of virtue when the priest himself lies howling for mercy. Next, the Queen bids Ophelia farewell, scattering flowers on her grave and remarking that she always wanted Ophelia and Hamlet to marry. Then, overcome with grief, Laertes jumps in the grave with his sister and calls out to the gravedigger to bury him as well. Hamlet is overcome with sorrow over Ophelia's death and joins Laertes in the grave. When the two men argue, they are restrained by Claudius and Gertrude. As Hamlet leaves, Claudius slyly indicates to Laertes that his opportunity for revenge is almost at hand.

