Ham. Dost thou thinke Alexander lookt o'this [Sidenote: a this] fashion i'th' earth?
Hor. E'ene so.
Ham. And smelt so? Puh.
[Footnote 1: If this be the true reading, abhorred must mean horrified; but I incline to the Quarto.]
[Footnote 2: 'Not one jibe, not one flash of merriment now?']
[Footnote 3: —chop indeed quite fallen off!]
[Footnote 4: to this look—that of the skull.]
[Page 238]
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[1] find it stopping a [Sidenote: a find] bunghole.