Hor. What's that my Lord?
Ham. Dost thou thinke Alexander lookt o'this fashion
i'th' earth?
Hor. E'ene so
Ham. And smelt so? Puh
Hor. E'ene so, my Lord
Ham. To what base vses we may returne Horatio. Why may not Imagination trace the Noble dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping a bunghole
Hor. 'Twere to consider: to curiously to consider so
Ham. No faith, not a iot. But to follow him thether
with modestie enough, & likeliehood to lead it; as thus.
Alexander died: Alexander was buried: Alexander returneth
into dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make
Lome, and why of that Lome (whereto he was conuerted)
might they not stopp a Beere-barrell?
Imperiall Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay,
Might stop a hole to keepe the winde away.
Oh, that that earth, which kept the world in awe,
Should patch a Wall, t' expell the winters flaw.
But soft, but soft, aside; heere comes the King.
Enter King, Queene, Laertes, and a Coffin, with Lords attendant.
The Queene, the Courtiers. Who is that they follow,
And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken,
The Coarse they follow, did with disperate hand,
Fore do it owne life; 'twas some Estate.
Couch we a while, and mark
Laer. What Cerimony else?
Ham. That is Laertes, a very Noble youth: Marke
Laer. What Cerimony else?
Priest. Her Obsequies haue bin as farre inlarg'd.
As we haue warrantie, her death was doubtfull,
And but that great Command, o're-swaies the order,
She should in ground vnsanctified haue lodg'd,
Till the last Trumpet. For charitable praier,
Shardes, Flints, and Peebles, should be throwne on her:
Yet heere she is allowed her Virgin Rites,
Her Maiden strewments, and the bringing home
Of Bell and Buriall
Laer. Must there no more be done ?
Priest. No more be done:
We should prophane the seruice of the dead,
To sing sage Requiem, and such rest to her
As to peace-parted Soules