71

Source document

LAERTES. Must there no more be done? PRIEST. 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. LAERTES. 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. HAMLET. What, the fair Ophelia? QUEEN. [ 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. LAERTES. 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. HAMLET. [ 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. ] LAERTES. [ Grappling with him. ] The devil take thy soul! HAMLET. 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! KING. Pluck them asunder. QUEEN. Hamlet! Hamlet! All. Gentlemen! HORATIO. Good my lord, be quiet. [ The Attendants part them, and they come out of the grave. ] HAMLET. Why, I will fight with him upon this theme Until my eyelids will no longer wag. QUEEN. O my son, what theme? HAMLET. 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! HAMLET. ’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.