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Modern English
Is she to be buried in Christian burial, when she wilfully seeks her own salvation?
Is she really going to be buried in a Christian grave, when she deliberately took her own life?
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 make her grave straight. The coroner’s looked into it, and decided it’s a Christian burial.
How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defence?
How can that be, unless she killed herself to protect herself?
Why,’tis found so.
Well, that’s what’s been decided.
It must be
, there’s no other explanation. Here’s the thing: if I drown myself on purpose, it’s an intentional act, and an act has three parts: to act, to do, and to perform. So, that means she drowned herself on purpose.
, 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.
, there’s no other explanation. Here’s the thing: if I drown myself on purpose, it’s an intentional act, and an act has three parts: to act, to do, and to perform. So, that means she drowned herself on purpose.
Nay, but hear you, goodman delver,—
No, but listen, good man who’s digging the grave,—
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’s the water, okay? And here’s the man, right? If the man goes into the water and drowns himself, whether he wants to or not, he’s still going in—remember that. But if the water comes to him and drowns him, he’s not drowning himself. So, if he’s not guilty of his own death, he’s not cutting his own life short.
But is this law?
But is that the law?
Ay, marry, is’t, crowner’s quest law.
Yes, it is, that’s the law from the coroner’s inquest.
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 real truth? If she hadn’t been a lady, they wouldn’t have buried her with a Christian burial.
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.
Exactly. And it’s a shame that rich people can get away with drowning or hanging themselves without facing the same consequences as ordinary people. Anyway, give me my spade. The only “gentlemen” left are gardeners, ditch-diggers, and gravediggers; they still follow Adam’s original job.
Was he a gentleman?
Was Adam a gentleman?
He was the first that ever bore arms.
He was the first person to ever carry weapons.
Why, he had none.
But he didn’t have any.
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 pagan? How do you understand the Bible? The Bible says Adam dug. Could he dig without arms? I’ll ask you another question. If you don’t answer correctly—
Go to.
Go on.
What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?
Who builds something stronger than a mason, shipwright, or carpenter?
The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.
The person who makes gallows, 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 like your wit, really. The gallows works well. But how does it work well? It works for people who do bad things. Now, you’re wrong to say the gallows is stronger than the church; so, the gallows might suit you. Let’s try again.
Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?
Who builds something stronger than a mason, shipwright, or carpenter?
Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.
Yes, tell me, and then you can leave.
Marry, now I can tell.
Well, now I can tell.
To’t.
Go ahead.
Mass, I cannot tell.
Actually, 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.
Stop thinking so hard about it, because your dumb brain won’t work faster by trying harder. And when you’re asked this question next, just say “a grave-maker.” The houses they make last until the end of time. Go, get to Yaughan; bring me a drink.
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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.
When I was young and in love, I thought it was very sweet; To promise, oh, how I thought the time would be right for it, Oh, I thought there was nothing better.
Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at grave-making?
Doesn’t this guy have any sense of his job, singing while digging graves?
Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.
It’s just become a habit for him, it doesn’t even seem strange to him anymore.
’Tis e’en so; the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.
That’s exactly it; when you don’t have much to do, you notice things more easily.
[
] But age, with its slow steps, Has caught me in its grip, And has shipped me off to the afterlife, As if I’d never been anything before.
] 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.
] But age, with its slow steps, Has caught me in its grip, And has shipped me off to the afterlife, As if I’d never been anything before.
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 once and could sing. Look at how the fool throws it to the ground, like it’s Cain’s jawbone—the first murder weapon! This could be the skull of a politician, someone who used to deceive others, couldn’t it?
It might, my lord.
It could be, 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 it could be the skull of a courtier, one of those who’d say “Good morning, sweet lord! How are you, good lord?” This could be my lord such-and-such, who praised someone’s horse just to try to get it, couldn’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.
Exactly; and now it’s my Lady Worm’s, without a jaw, and being knocked around by a gravedigger’s spade. What a turn of events—if only we could see it! Did these bones cost no more than to be tossed around like game pieces? It hurts just thinking about it.
[
] A pickaxe and a spade, a spade, And a shroud to wrap it up; Oh, a pit of clay to be dug For such a guest is right.
] 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.
] A pickaxe and a spade, a spade, And a shroud to wrap it up; Oh, a pit of clay to be dug For such a guest is right.
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?
Here’s another one. Why can’t this be the skull of a lawyer? Where are all his legal arguments now, his tricks, his cases, his legal rights? Why does he let this stupid gravedigger knock his skull around with a dirty shovel and not tell him about his legal rights? Hmm. This guy might have been a big landowner in his day, with all his legal documents—his deeds, his contracts, his land transfers. Is this the result of all that, to have his skull full of dirt? Won’t his legal documents be worth anything anymore, no matter how much land they say he owned? His land deeds can barely fit in this box, and now the one who inherits it gets nothing at all, huh?
Not a jot more, my lord.
Not a bit more, my lord.
Is not parchment made of sheep-skins?
Isn’t parchment made from sheepskin?
Ay, my lord, and of calf-skins too.
Yes, my lord, and also from calfskin.
They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow.—Whose grave’s this, sir?
They’re like sheep and calves looking for reassurance in that. I’ll talk to this guy. — Whose grave is this, sir?
Mine, sir. [
] Oh, a pit of clay should be made For such a guest, it’s fitting.
] O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet.
] Oh, a pit of clay should be made For such a guest, it’s fitting.
I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in’t.
I think it really is yours, because 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 wrong about that, sir, so it’s not yours. As for me, I don’t lie in it, but 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’re lying in it, because you’re in it and claiming it’s yours. It’s meant for the dead, not the living; so you’re lying.
’Tis a quick lie, sir;’t will away again from me to you.
It’s a quick lie, sir; it will go from me back to you.
What man dost thou dig it for?
Which 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’s going 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, may her soul rest in peace, 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 certain this fool is! We must speak carefully, or we’ll be undone by double meanings. By God, Horatio, I’ve noticed this for the last three years — the world has gotten so picky that the common man’s toe comes so close to the nobleman’s heel, he rubs it raw. — How long have you been a gravedigger?
Of all the days i’th’year, I came to’t that day that our last King Hamlet o’ercame Fortinbras.
Out of all the days in the year, I started the day our last King Hamlet defeated Fortinbras.
How long is that since?
How long ago was 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? Any idiot can tell that. It was the exact day that young Hamlet was born—he’s the one who’s crazy and was sent to England.
Ay, marry, why was he sent into England?
Oh, really? 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.
Because he was mad. They’ll try to cure him there; or if they don’t, it won’t matter much there.
Why?
Why?
’Twill not be seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he.
It won’t be noticed there; the people there are just as crazy as he is.
How came he mad?
How did he go mad?
Very strangely, they say.
They say it happened in a very strange way.
How strangely?
How strange?
Faith, e’en with losing his wits.
Well, by losing his mind, actually.
Upon what ground?
What caused that?
Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty years.
Well, here in Denmark. I’ve been the gravedigger here, man and boy, for thirty years.
How long will a man lie i’th’earth ere he rot?
How long does it take for a man to rot in the ground?
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.
Well, if he’s not already rotting before he dies—as we have plenty of diseased corpses nowadays that barely stay together—he’ll last you about eight or nine years. A tanner lasts about nine years.
Why he more than another?
Why does he last longer than others?
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.
Well, sir, his skin is so tough from his job that it keeps water out for a long time. And water is a big cause of a dead body decaying. Here’s a skull; this skull has been in the ground for twenty-three years.
Whose was it?
Whose skull is it?
A whoreson, mad fellow’s it was. Whose do you think it was?
A bastard, madman it was. 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.
Damn him, what a mad fool! He once poured a jug of Rhine wine on my head. This skull, sir, was Yorick’s, the King’s jester.
This?
This one?
E’en that.
Yes, that one.
Let me see. [
] Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio, a man of endless humor, with a brilliant imagination. He carried me on his back a thousand times, and now, how disgusting it seems in my mind! I feel sick thinking about it. These were the lips I’ve kissed so many times. Where are your jokes now? Your tricks? Your songs? Your moments of joy that used to make everyone laugh? Not one left, to mock your own grin? Completely fallen? Now go to my lady’s room, and tell her, no matter how much makeup she wears, she’ll end up like this. Make her laugh at that.—Please, Horatio, tell me one thing.
] 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.—Prythee, Horatio, tell me one thing.
] Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio, a man of endless humor, with a brilliant imagination. He carried me on his back a thousand times, and now, how disgusting it seems in my mind! I feel sick thinking about it. These were the lips I’ve kissed so many times. Where are your jokes now? Your tricks? Your songs? Your moments of joy that used to make everyone laugh? Not one left, to mock your own grin? Completely fallen? Now go to my lady’s room, and tell her, no matter how much makeup she wears, she’ll end up like this. 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 after he died, in the ground?
E’en so.
Yes, my lord.
And smelt so? Pah!
And smelled like this? Ugh!
E’en so, my lord.
Yes, 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?
Look how low we can fall, Horatio! Why can’t we imagine the noble dust of Alexander ending up stopping up a wine barrel?
’Twere to consider too curiously to consider so.
It’s too much to think about it 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, really, not at all. But let’s follow the thought with some modesty, and reasonable logic: Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander turned into dust; that dust is now earth; from earth we make soil; and why couldn’t that soil, which he turned into, be used to plug a beer barrel? Mighty Caesar, dead and turned to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. Oh, that the earth that once ruled the world Should now patch a wall to keep out the winter cold. But wait! Wait! Quiet! 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’re following? And with such incomplete rituals? This means The body they’re following must have taken its own life in despair. It must have been someone important. Let’s sit here for a moment and watch.
What ceremony else?
What other ceremony is there?
That is Laertes, a very noble youth. Mark.
That’s Laertes, a very noble young man. Watch him.
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 much as we could. Her death was uncertain; And if not for a higher authority, she would have been buried In unhallowed ground until Judgment Day. For prayers of charity, People would throw trash like shards, stones, and pebbles on her grave. Yet here she is, given her proper rites, Her maiden’s flowers, and the ringing of bells for her burial.
Must there no more be done?
Is there nothing else to 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.
No, nothing else. We would be desecrating the dead To perform any more rituals or say more prayers, As if she were still alive.
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 earth, And may violets grow from her pure, untouched body. I tell you, rude priest, An angel will minister to my sister When you are dead and screaming in hell.
What, the fair Ophelia?
What, the beautiful Ophelia?
[
] Sweet flowers for the sweet one. Goodbye. I had hoped you would have been my Hamlet’s wife; I thought you would have decorated his wedding bed, sweet girl, And not been the one whose grave I now strew.
] 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.
] Sweet flowers for the sweet one. Goodbye. I had hoped you would have been my Hamlet’s wife; I thought you would have decorated his wedding bed, sweet girl, And not been the one whose grave I now strew.
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. [
] Now pile the dirt on top of both the living and the dead, Until you’ve made a mountain of it, Higher than old Pelion or the towering peak Of Mount Olympus.
] 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.
] Now pile the dirt on top of both the living and the dead, Until you’ve made a mountain of it, Higher than old Pelion or the towering peak Of Mount Olympus.
[
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] 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. [
]
]
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[
] The devil take your soul!
] The devil take thy soul!
] The devil take your soul!
Thou pray’st not well. I prythee 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!
You’re not praying properly. Please take your hands off my throat; For though I am not quick to anger or rash, I have something dangerous in me, Which you should fear, wise man. Get your hands off me!
Pluck them asunder.
Pull them apart.
Hamlet! Hamlet!
Hamlet! Hamlet!
Gentlemen!
Gentlemen!
Good my lord, be quiet.
Please, my lord, be calm.
Why, I will fight with him upon this theme Until my eyelids will no longer wag.
Why, I’ll fight with him about this topic Until my eyelids won’t move anymore.
O my son, what theme?
Oh, my son, what topic?
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 Couldn’t, with all their love, Match mine. What will you do for her?
O, he is mad, Laertes.
Oh, he’s crazy, Laertes.
For love of God forbear him!
For the love of God, leave him alone!
’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.
Damn it, show me what you’ll do: Will you cry? will you fight? will you fast? will you tear yourself apart? Will you drink vinegar? eat a crocodile? I’ll do it. Are you here to complain? To try to outdo me by jumping in her grave? Be buried with her, and I’ll do the same. And if you talk about mountains, let them throw Millions of acres on us, until our land, Burning his head against the hot zone, Makes Mount Ossa look like a pimple. No, if you’ll shout, I’ll shout as loudly 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 pure madness: And for now, this madness will keep on with him; Soon, like the gentle female dove, When she sees her golden eggs are gone, He’ll be silent and sad.
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; Why are you treating me like this? I’ve always loved you. But it doesn’t matter. Let Hercules himself do what he wants, The cat will still meow, and the dog will have his day.
I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.
Please, good Horatio, stay with him.
[
] Stay patient with what we discussed last night; We’ll handle things now. — Good Gertrude, keep an eye on your son. This grave will have a living memorial. We’ll have an hour of calm soon; Until then, we’ll continue patiently.
] 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.
] Stay patient with what we discussed last night; We’ll handle things now. — Good Gertrude, keep an eye on your son. This grave will have a living memorial. We’ll have an hour of calm soon; Until then, we’ll continue patiently.