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Laertes:
What ceremony else?
Priest:
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.
Laertes:
Must there no more be done?
Priest:
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.
Laertes:
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.
Hamlet:
What, the fair Ophelia?
Queen:
(Scattering flowers.) Sweets to the sweet. Farewell.
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.
Laertes:
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.
(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 wand’ring stars, and makes them stand
Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I,
Hamlet the Dane.
(Leaps into the grave.)
Laertes:
(Grappling with him.) The devil take thy soul!
Hamlet:
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!
King:
Pluck them asunder.
Queen:
Hamlet! Hamlet!
All:
Gentlemen!
Horatio:
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.
Queen:
O my son, what theme?
Hamlet:
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?