Ham. How long will a man lie i’th earth ere he rot ?
Clow. Fayth if a be not rotten before a die, as we haue many pockie corſes, that will ſcarce hold the laying in, a will laſt you ſom eyght yeere, or nine yeere. A Tanner will laſt you nine yeere.
Ham. Why he more then another ?
Clow. Why ſir, his hide is ſo tand with his trade, that a will keepe out water a great while ; & your water is a ſore decayer of your whorſon dead body, heer's a ſcull now hath lyen you i'th earth 23. yeeres.
Ham. Whoſe was it ?
Clow. A whorſon mad fellowes it was, whoſe do you think it was ?
Ham. Nay I know not.
Clow. A peſtilence on him for a madde rogue, a pourd a flagon of Reniſh on my head once ; this ſame skull ſir, was ſir Yoricks skull, the Kings Iester.
Ham. This ?
Clow. Een that.
Ham. Alas poore Yorick, I knew him Horatio, a fellow of infinite ieſt, of moſt excellent fancie, hee hath bore me on his backe a thouſand times, and now how abhorred in my imagination it is: my gorge riſes at it. Heere hung thoſe lyppes that I haue kiſt I know not howe oft, where be your gibes now ? your gamboles, your ſongs, your flaſhes of merriment, that were wont to ſet the table on a roare, not one now to mocke your owne grinning, quite chapfalne. Now get you to my Ladies table, & tell her, let her paint an inch thicke, to this favour ſhe must come, make her laugh at that.
Hora. What's that my Lord ?
Ham. Dooſt thou thinke Alexander lookt a this faſhion i'th earth ?
Hora. Een ſo.
Ham. And ſmelt ſo pah.
Hora. Een ſo my Lord.
Ham. To what baſe vſes wee may returne Horatio ? Why may not imagination trace the noble duſt of Alexander, till a find it ſtopping a bunghole ?
Hor. Twere to conſider too curiouſly to confider ſo.
Ham. No faith, not a iot, but to follow him thether with modeſty enough, and likelyhood to leade it. Alexander dyed, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth to duſt, the duſt is earth , of earth vvee make Lome & why of that Lome whereto he was conuerted, might they not ſtoppe a Beare-barrell ?
Imperious Ceſar dead, and turn'd to Clay,
Might ſtoppe a hole, to keepe the wind away.
O that that earth which kept the world in awe,
Should patch a wall t'expell the waters flaw.
But ſoft, but ſoft awhile, here comes the King,
The Queen, the Courtiers, who is this they follow?
And with ſuch maimed rites ? this doth betoken,
The corſe they follow, did with deſprat hand
Foredoo it owne life, twas of ſome eſtate,
Couch we a while and marke.