Ham. Why he more than another?
Clown. Why, sir, his hide is so tann'd with his trade that 'a
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
lien
you i' th' earth three-and-twenty years.
Ham. Whose was it?
Clown. A whoreson, mad fellow's it was. Whose do you think it
was?
Ham. Nay, I know not.
Clown. 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.
Ham. This?
Clown. E'en that.
Ham. 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 tunes. 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 chap- fall'n? Now get you to my lady's
chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this
favour she must come.
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