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GRAVEDIGGER 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.
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GRAVEDIGGER Well, if he’s not rotten before he dies (and there are
a lot of people now who are so rotten they start falling to pieces
even before you put them in the coffin), he’ll last eight
or nine years. A leathermaker will last nine years.
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HAMLET Why he more than another?
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HAMLET Why does he last longer?
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GRAVEDIGGER Why, sir, his hide is so tanned with his trade that he will
keep out water a great while, and your water is a sore
decayer of your whoreson dead body.
(indicates a skull)
Here’s a skull now. This skull has lain in the earth
three-and-twenty years.
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GRAVEDIGGER Because his hide is so leathery from his trade that he keeps the
water off him a long time, and water is what makes your goddamn body
rot more than anything. Here’s a skull that’s
been here twenty-three years.
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HAMLET Whose was it?
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HAMLET Whose was it?
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GRAVEDIGGER A whoreson mad fellow’s it was. Whose do you think it
was?
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GRAVEDIGGER A crazy bastard. Who do you think?
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HAMLET Nay, I know not.
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HAMLET I really don’t know.
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GRAVEDIGGER
155A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! He poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was
Yorick’s skull, the king’s jester.
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GRAVEDIGGER Damn that crazy madman! He poured a pitcher of white wine on my
head once. This is the skull of Yorick, the king’s
jester.
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HAMLET This?
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HAMLET This one?
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GRAVEDIGGER E'en that.
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GRAVEDIGGER Yes, that one.
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HAMLET 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 kissed 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
chapfallen? Now get you to my lady’s chamber and tell
her,
let her paint an inch thick, to this favor she must come.
Make her laugh at that.—Prithee, Horatio, tell me one
thing.
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HAMLET Let me see. (he takes the skull)
Oh, poor Yorick! I used to know him, Horatio—a very funny
guy, and with an excellent imagination. He carried me on his back a
thousand times, and now—how terrible—this is
him. It makes my stomach turn. I don’t know how many
times I kissed the lips that used to be right here. Where are your
jokes now? Your pranks? Your songs?
Your flashes of wit that used to set the whole table laughing? You
don’t make anybody smile now. Are you sad about that? You
need to go to my lady’s room and tell her that no matter
how much makeup she slathers on, she’ll end up just like
you some day. That’ll make her laugh. Horatio, tell me
something.
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