Is she to be buried in Christian burial, when she wilfully seeks her
own salvation?
Is she to be buried in Christian burial when she willfully seeks her own salvation?
She drowned herself. Should she get a proper Christian burial?
she drowned suicide burial
I tell thee she is, and therefore make her grave straight. The crowner
hath sat on her, and finds it Christian burial.
I tell thee she is; and therefore make her grave straight: the crowner hath sat on her, and finds it Christian burial.
The coroner said it was an accident. So yes, she gets a Christian burial.
coroner said accident burial
How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defence?
A pick-axe 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.
Digging graves. That's what we do. We bury everyone.
digging graves we bury everyone
Why, ’tis found so.
Yes, Hamlet, this is where the dead rest.
The dead are here.
the dead
It must be _se offendendo_, 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.
Has this fellow no feeling of his business? that he sings at grave-making?
How can he sing while digging graves? Where's the respect for the dead?
singing at gravedigging no respect for the dead
Nay, but hear you, goodman delver,—
Methinks it shows a most piteous ambition in the fool that uses it. For there is no ancient gentleman but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers: they hold up Adam's profession.
We all come to this. We dig graves. That's the natural end of all gentlemen—we become gravediggers.
all become gravediggers natural end adam's profession
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.
He sings louder.
He keeps singing.
But is this law?
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.
This is Yorick—my father's jester. I knew him. He was brilliant, funny. He carried me on his back when I was a child. And now he's just a skull. Everything dies. Everything becomes this.
yorick my father's jester i knew him he made me laugh now he's just bone everything dies
Ay, marry, is’t, crowner’s quest law.
Where be his quiddits now? his quillets? his cases? his tenors? 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 pate of a fine gentleman?
This man probably spent his whole life buying land, making deals, arguments over property. And now he's here. Being knocked around by a gravedigger. What does it matter? All his cleverness, all his deals—it means nothing.
spent his life buying land making deals now nothing means nothing all gone
Will you ha’ the truth on’t? If this had not been a gentlewoman, she
should have been buried out o’ Christian burial.
Not a jot more, my lord.
No, my lord.
no
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.
Why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddits now, his quillets, his cases, his tenors, his tricks? why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel?
This could be a lawyer. Probably is. All his knowledge, all his arguing. And now a gravedigger's hitting it with a shovel.
a lawyer all his knowledge arguments now a shovel to the skull
Was he a gentleman?
How long will a man lie i' the earth ere he rot?
How long does it take for a body to rot in the ground?
how long until rot
He was the first that ever bore arms.
If he be not rotten before he die—as we have many pocky corses now-a-days, that will scarce hold the laying in—he will last you some eight year or nine year: a tanner will last you nine year.
If the body's not already rotten, it'll last eight or nine years. A tanner's body lasts longer—the chemicals preserve it.
eight nine years tanner lasts longer chemicals preservation
Why, he had none.
Why he more than another?
Why a tanner longer than others?
why
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—
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.
His skin is already tanned and treated by his work. It resists water. Water rots bodies.
water rots bodies tanning preserves
Go to.
To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till he find it stopping a beer barrel?
Think about it—Alexander the Great. One of the mightiest men who ever lived. He conquered the world. And now his dust might be in a beer barrel. Or stopping a hole in a wall.
alexander the great conquered the world now dust in a barrel in a wall
What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright,
or the carpenter?
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 to expel the winter flaw!
Caesar conquered armies. And now his body might patch a wall against the wind. Everything—all power, all empire—becomes dust. Meaningless dust.
caesar conquered armies now patches walls against the wind all dust all meaningless
The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.
The gallows maker—that structure lasts longer than a thousand tenants.
The gallows builder—his work outlasts everything.
the gallows builder his work lasts forever
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 that. The gallows lasts well. But what does it mean, 'does well'? It does well to people who do wrong. Now, you're doing wrong by saying the gallows outlasts the church. So the gallows may do well to you. Try again.
I like that. The gallows does last. But 'does well' means what? It does well to criminals. So if the gallows lasts longer, then the gallows will do well to you—meaning hang you. Try again.
the gallows does well to people who do wrong so it will do well to you
Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?
Who builds stronger—a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?
Who builds stronger—a mason, a shipbuilder, or a carpenter?
who builds strongest
Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.
Tell me and we're finished.
Tell me.
tell me
Marry, now I can tell.
Now I can tell you.
Now I can answer.
now i can answer
To’t.
Go on.
Go on.
go
Mass, I cannot tell.
Actually, I can't tell.
Actually, I don't know.
i don't know
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.
The answer is a gravedigger. The gravedigger builds stronger than any of those—he builds for eternity.
The gravedigger. A gravedigger builds for the longest—he builds graves.
the gravedigger he builds forever for the dead
Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at
grave-making?
[He sings] In youth, when I did love, love did me no good...
[Singing] When I was young and in love...
when i was young when i was in love
Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.
That skull—how long has it been in the ground?
How long has that been buried?
how long has it been buried
’Tis e’en so; the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.
This is Yorick, the king's jester. He's been in the ground twenty-three years.
This is Yorick. The king's jester. Twenty-three years.
yorick the jester twenty-three years
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.
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him. Here, in the ground, he lies, and I hold his skull—this is what remains of a man who once made the whole court laugh.
Poor Yorick. I knew him. And now his skull is all that's left.
poor yorick i knew him this is all that remains
The skull as meditation object is one of the oldest devices in European art and writing: the memento mori, Latin for 'remember that you will die.' Renaissance paintings of scholars and saints often include a skull on the desk as a reminder of mortality. Shakespeare would have known this tradition and is deliberately invoking it — but he gives it a twist that changes everything. Hamlet is not looking at an anonymous skull for philosophical meditation. He is looking at Yorick, a specific person he knew. The memento mori tradition usually works through abstraction: death is universal, therefore look at this skull and contemplate your end. Hamlet's response is the opposite of abstraction — he goes immediately to the particular: these lips, his back, those jokes. The skull becomes a memorial rather than a symbol. And in that shift from symbol to memorial, death becomes something that actually happened to someone, not something that happens in general. This is the change the scene achieves — and it prepares Hamlet for the acceptance of his own death that arrives in 5-2.
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?
Where is your wit now, Yorick? Where are your jokes? Did you ever think you'd end up like this—being turned around in a graveyard and poked at?
Where's your wit now, Yorick? All your jokes? Did you ever think you'd end up like this?
yorick where is your wit where are your jokes
It might, my lord.
All people come to this—emperors, jesters, beggars, kings. Dust.
Everyone ends up like this. Kings, peasants, emperors. Dust.
everyone kings paupers all dust
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?
Alexander the Great died and was buried. Now he's dust. And we use that dust to stop a beer barrel.
Alexander died and became dust. Now we use that dust to plug a barrel.
alexander died became dust used to plug a barrel
Ay, my lord.
It's not a pretty thing to think about. But that's the truth.
It's not pretty. But it's true.
not pretty but true
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.
And so we all return to the earth from which we came.
That's what we all become.
that's what we all become
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.
Who's that coming?
Who's coming?
who's coming
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?
This is a funeral.
That's a funeral.
funeral
Not a jot more, my lord.
The priest is here. Why so few people at the funeral?
The priest is with them. Why so few mourners?
funeral few mourners
Is not parchment made of sheep-skins?
That's Laertes.
That's Laertes.
laertes
Ay, my lord, and of calf-skins too.
It's Ophelia.
It's Ophelia.
ophelia
They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I will
speak to this fellow.—Whose grave’s this, sir?
Since she died under questionable circumstances, we can't give her a full funeral. The priest is upset about it, but those are the rules.
The priest is upset. Questionable death—that's why the simple ceremony.
questionable death simple funeral
Mine, sir.
Now I see her grave. May the earth that holds her be light on her.
There's my sister. God rest her.
there she is my sister
I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in’t.
I'll go with her.
I'm coming with you.
i'm coming with you
You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore ’tis not yours.
For my part, I do not lie in’t, yet it is mine.
Wait! What are you doing?
Hold on—what are you doing?
what are you doing
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.
It's me, Hamlet.
It's Hamlet.
it's hamlet
’Tis a quick lie, sir; ’t will away again from me to you.
I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers couldn't love her as much as I did.
I loved her. More than you could know.
i loved her more than brothers more than anyone
What man dost thou dig it for?
Hamlet! You—traitorous villain!
Hamlet! You killed my father!
hamlet you killed him
For no man, sir.
I didn't mean to kill your father. It was an accident in my madness.
I didn't mean to. I was mad.
i was mad i didn't mean to
What woman then?
Laertes, control yourself. This is the moment we've been planning for.
Laertes. Control yourself. We have this planned.
we're ready for this
For none neither.
Laertes, I challenge you to a duel. First blood. We'll settle this like men.
Laertes, fight me. Right now. Just the two of us.
fight me now just us
Who is to be buried in’t?
I accept.
I will.
yes
One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she’s dead.
Good. This is what we wanted.
This is it.
this is it
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?
Before we fight, I need to say something.
Wait. Before we fight.
wait
Of all the days i’ th’ year, I came to’t that day that our last King
Hamlet o’ercame Fortinbras.
I know what you think of me. But I've been mad. And in my madness, I did terrible things. But I didn't do them as your enemy—I did them as a madman.
I know you think I'm a villain. But I wasn't in control. I was mad. I did things—terrible things—but not as myself.
i was mad i wasn't myself what i did was madness not malice
How long is that since?
You killed my father. I can't forgive that.
You killed my father. That's unforgivable.
you killed him unforgivable
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.
Then let's settle it with swords.
Then let's fight.
then fight me
Ay, marry, why was he sent into England?
You'll fight with blunted swords. First one to land a hit wins.
The rules are blunted swords. First hit wins.
blunted swords first hit wins
Why, because he was mad; he shall recover his wits there; or if he do
not, it’s no great matter there.
Here, Hamlet. Drink this wine before the match.
Hamlet, drink this.
drink this
Why?
[He drinks]
[He drinks]
’Twill not be seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he.
Begin!
Begin!
begin
How came he mad?
A hit!
A hit!
hit
Very strangely, they say.
No—I can do better!
Again!
again
The First Clown is one of Shakespeare's most brilliant comic creations — a man who talks in logical paradoxes, knows his professional territory better than any prince, and has the deep equanimity of someone who handles death every day. His logic is circular, his Latin is garbled, his legal analysis is nonsense — but he wins every argument with Hamlet, and he knows it. He represents a social class that the play repeatedly acknowledges but rarely centers: the working people of Denmark, who dig the graves and carry the letters and sail the ships and are, in the Second Clown's observation, denied the rights that the gentry take for granted. The grave-digging scene is the one moment in the play where a working man is the most competent person in the room. Hamlet is finally in a conversation where he cannot out-think his interlocutor — not because the clown is cleverer, but because he is indifferent to the very things that paralyze Hamlet. He is not afraid of death. He is not trying to understand it. He just digs the holes.
How strangely?
They fight again.
They fight.
Faith, e’en with losing his wits.
I'm faster than you!
I'm winning!
i'm faster
Upon what ground?
Now I have you!
Got you!
got you
Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty
years.
[He falls] I'm hit.
[Falls] You got me.
i'm hit
How long will a man lie i’ th’earth ere he rot?
I'm poisoned too. We're both dying.
I'm poisoned. We both are.
i'm poisoned we're both dying
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.
Claudius did this. He poisoned the sword.
Claudius did this. He poisoned it.
claudius he poisoned us
Why he more than another?
[She dies] No! I'm poisoned!
[She dies] The drink!
the wine poison
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.
You killed my mother!
You killed her!
you killed her
Whose was it?
[He stabs Claudius] Die!
[Stabs him] Die!
die
A whoreson, mad fellow’s it was. Whose do you think it was?
[He dies]
[Dies]
Nay, I know not.
Hamlet, I forgive you. The fault is all Claudius's. Forgive me too.
Hamlet. I forgive you. It was all Claudius. Forgive me.
forgive me it was claudius
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.
I'm dying. You need to know the truth about what happened. Horatio will tell you.
I'm dying. Tell them. Tell them what really happened.
tell them the truth
This?
I'm here, Hamlet. I won't leave you.
I'm here.
i'm here
E’en that.
The rest is silence.
That's all.
rest silence
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 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.—Prithee,
Horatio, tell me one thing.
[He dies]
[Dies]
What’s that, my lord?
Now cracks a noble heart. Goodnight, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
He's gone. Goodnight, sweet prince. May the angels carry you.
goodnight sweet prince angels carry you
Dost thou think Alexander looked o’ this fashion i’ th’earth?
What has happened here?
What's happened?
what happened
E’en so.
These are the bodies of the Danish royal family. Hamlet, the prince, is dead. So are the king and queen.
They're all dead. The prince, the king, the queen.
all dead
And smelt so? Pah!
Denmark is now mine to rule. Hamlet deserves honor.
Denmark is mine. But Hamlet deserves honor.
denmark is mine hamlet deserves honor
E’en so, my lord.
I'll tell his story to the world. So that his name will be remembered.
I'll tell everyone what happened. So they'll remember him.
i'll tell his story so he'll be remembered
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?
[The play ends]
[The play ends]
’Twere to consider too curiously to consider so.
Hamlet! Is it you?
Hamlet?
hamlet
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.
I'm here. And I loved her—I love her still.
I loved her.
i loved her
What ceremony else?
Hamlet, no—not here, not now.
Hamlet, don't.
stop
That is Laertes, a very noble youth. Mark.
Separate them.
Pull them apart.
separate them
What ceremony else?
We'll settle this another way.
This isn't over.
we're not done
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.
Come. Leave the grave.
Come with me.
come
Must there no more be done?
I'll come.
I'm going.
yes
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 more should be said. To sing an elaborate prayer for someone whose drowning might not have been an accident—that would be disrespecting the ritual itself, disrespecting the dead.
That's all. Singing more prayers for her—when we don't know how she died—that's not respectful to the ceremony or to the dead.
no more can't sing for a questionable burial it disrespects the ritual
Every reader or audience member notices that Hamlet in Act 5 is different from Hamlet in Acts 1-4. The difference is hardest to locate in any single line, but the graveyard scene demonstrates it clearly. He watches the gravedigger and is amused rather than appalled. He holds the skull and feels something personal and specific rather than working himself into a philosophical frenzy. When he sees Ophelia's funeral, he breaks his cover — reveals himself publicly, claims his grief, challenges Laertes — without calculating the consequences. This is new. The Hamlet who spent Acts 2-4 hesitating, calculating, overthinking, performing madness as a cover for inaction — that man is not entirely gone, but something in him has simplified. The pirate adventure off the coast of England, the rewriting of the letters, the time at sea — all of it offstage, all of it forming a different Hamlet. The graveyard is where we first meet the man he has become.
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.
Put her in the earth. And from her pure, untouched body, let flowers grow. I tell you, you rigid, heartless priest, when you're in your grave—howling in hell—my sister will be an angel ministering in heaven.
Bury her. May flowers grow from her beautiful, clean body. Listen, you cold priest—when you're dead and howling, my sister will be an angel. She'll be better than you in death.
bury her flowers will grow from her body she'll be an angel when you're howling in hell
What, the fair Ophelia?
Ophelia? You mean... Ophelia?
Wait—that's Ophelia?
ophelia no
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.
I had hoped you would be my Hamlet's wife. I imagined decorating your wedding bed with flowers. Instead, I'm throwing flowers on your grave.
I thought you'd be Hamlet's wife. I wanted to decorate your bride-bed with flowers. But now I'm throwing flowers on your grave instead.
i thought you'd be his wife i'd decorate your bed with flowers instead your grave
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.
Threefold sorrow fall on that cursed head—treble sorrow, multiplied ten times over—on whoever did this, whoever took her brilliant mind from her. Hold on—don't cover her yet—let me hold her once more.
A curse on the bastard who did this. Treble pain, ten times over, on their head. Wait—don't bury her yet. Let me hold her one more time.
curse on them whoever did this let me hold her once more please
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.
Horatio, we need to talk.
Horatio.
horatio
Thou pray’st not well.
I prithee 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!
I'm listening.
I'm here.
yes
Pluck them asunder.
Something happened on the ship. The letter—they were sending me to be killed.
On the ship. They wanted me dead.
they sent me to be killed
Hamlet! Hamlet!
All.
Gentlemen!
What?
What?
what
Good my lord, be quiet.
I changed the letter. Now Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are the ones going to their deaths.
I changed it. They're the ones going to die.
i changed it they die not me
Why, I will fight with him upon this theme
Until my eyelids will no longer wag.
So the King tried to kill you.
The King wanted you dead.
the king wanted you dead
O my son, what theme?
Now I have no choice. It's him or me.
Now it's between him and me.
him or me
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?
Wait—Laertes is here.
Laertes is here.
laertes
O, he is mad, Laertes.
Yes. And they want my blood.
They want me dead.
they want me dead
For love of God forbear him!
There's something else. About Ophelia.
Ophelia.
ophelia
’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.
What? Tell me.
Tell me.
what
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.
She's gone. Drowned in the river.
She drowned.
she's dead drowned
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.
No. Everything—everyone.
Everyone.
everyone gone
I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.
My lord, the match is ready.
My lord. It's time.
it's time
The Reckoning
The churchyard scene is one of the most architecturally perfect in Shakespeare — it moves from comedy to philosophy to grief to violence, and each register is necessary for the others. The gravediggers open with a legal parody about whether Ophelia's drowning was suicide ('an act hath three branches: it is to act, to do, to perform') that is both absurd and deadly serious — if she drowned herself, she is damned; the question of her burial is the question of her soul. Hamlet arrives in a changed register: he watches the clowns, he thinks, he holds the skull, and he has a quality of calm he has never had before. The Yorick speech is not performed grief — it is genuine encounter with death as a fact, as a thing in his hand, not an abstraction. Then the funeral procession arrives and Hamlet sees that it is Ophelia. Laertes leaps into the grave weeping. Hamlet reveals himself and leaps in. For a moment the two revenging sons grapple in a grave. It is the most terrible staging in the play.
If this happened today…
Two municipal gravediggers argue over paperwork while digging a grave for a case that might be ruled a suicide — which would change the insurance, the service, the whole thing. A man watches them work. He picks up a skull and realizes he knew the person. His childhood best friend. Then he realizes whose funeral this is. He has been standing at his ex-girlfriend's graveside without knowing it. And her brother, who blames him, is already there.