QUEEN. (Scattering flowers.)

Sweets to the sweet: farewell!

I hoped 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
Deprived 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 wandering stars and makes them

stand

Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I,

The devil take thy soul. (Grappling with him.)

HAMLET.

Thou pray'st not well.

I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat;

For, though I am not splenitive and rash,
Yet have I in me something dangerous,

Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand.

KING.

Pluck them asunder.

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.

I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers
Could not, with all their quantity of love,
Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?

'Swounds, show me what thou 'lt do:

Woo 't weep? woo 't fight? woo 't fast? woo 't tear thyself?

?

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, and thou 'lt mouth, I'll rant as well as thou.