Is she to be buried in Christian burial, when she wilfully seeks her
own salvation?
Should she be buried with Christian rites when she deliberately took her own life?
How can we give her a Christian burial when she killed herself on purpose?
can someone who kills themselves even get a christian funeral
I tell thee she is, and therefore make her grave straight. The crowner
hath sat on her, and finds it Christian burial.
I'm telling you she will be. Dig her grave right away. The coroner has held an inquest and ruled it was a Christian burial.
Yeah, she does get one, so just dig the grave. The coroner looked into it and decided it counts as a proper burial.
yes she does. coroner approved it
How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defence?
How is that possible unless you could argue she drowned herself in self-defense?
I don't get it—how can they rule it's a proper burial unless they're saying she drowned herself defending herself?
that doesn't make sense unless they think she was defending herself
Why, ’tis found so.
Well, that's what the coroner's finding was.
Yeah, that's what they found.
that's what they decided
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.
It must be ruled as self-defense—there's no other explanation. Here's my point: if I drown myself on purpose, that's an action, and every action has three components—to act, to do, and to perform. Therefore, she drowned herself intentionally.
It has to be self-defense, there's no other way to look at it. See, here's the thing: if I drown myself on purpose, that's an action, right? And every action has three parts—the action itself, doing it, and performing it. So obviously she drowned herself on purpose.
has to be self defense. if u drown yourself on purpose, that's an action with three parts: acting, doing, performing. so she drowned herself on purpose
Nay, but hear you, goodman delver,—
No, but listen to me, gravedigger—
Hey, wait a minute, gravedigger—
wait, gravedigger—
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.
Let me finish. Here's the water—good. Here stands the man—good. Now if the man walks to this water and drowns himself, well, willing or not, he goes there. Pay attention to that. But if the water came to him and drowned him, then he didn't drown himself. Therefore, someone who isn't guilty of causing their own death doesn't shorten their own life.
Wait, let me show you. Here's the water. Here's the man. Now if the man goes to the water and drowns himself, he's going there no matter what—catch that? But if the water came to him and drowned him, then he didn't do it himself. So basically, if someone isn't responsible for their own death, they didn't actually shorten their life.
if man goes to water = drowns himself if water comes to man = doesn't drown himself so if ur not guilty of ur own death = u didn't shorten ur life
But is this law?
But is that actually the law?
Is that even law though?
is that actually law
Ay, marry, is’t, crowner’s quest law.
Yes indeed, it is—it's what the coroner's inquest decides.
Yeah, it is—that's coroner's law, my friend.
yeah it is. that's coroner's inquest law
Will you ha’ the truth on’t? If this had not been a gentlewoman, she
should have been buried out o’ Christian burial.
Want to know the truth? If she hadn't been a gentlewoman, she would have been buried outside Christian ground.
You want to know the real deal? If she wasn't a lady, she'd be buried outside hallowed ground.
real talk: if she wasn't a lady, no christian burial for her
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.
You're right about that. And it's a shame that rich people get the privilege in this world to drown or hang themselves while their ordinary Christian neighbors can't. Get my spade. The only old-fashioned gentlemen left are gardeners, ditch-diggers, and grave-makers—they're keeping up Adam's work from the beginning.
You got it. And really it's messed up that rich people get away with drowning or hanging themselves while regular folks can't. Anyway, hand me my spade. The only real old-school gentlemen are gardeners, ditch-diggers, and grave-makers. They're doing what Adam did—honest work.
exactly. it's messed up rich people can kill themselves but regular folks can't. grave makers, gardeners, ditchers—they're the real gentlemen. they do adam's work
Was he a gentleman?
Was Adam a gentleman?
Hold on, was Adam actually a gentleman?
ok but was adam really a gentleman
He was the first that ever bore arms.
Yes, he was the first person to have arms.
Yeah, he was the first guy who had arms.
he was the first to have arms
Why, he had none.
But he didn't have a coat of arms.
I mean, he didn't have any heraldry or noble symbol.
he didn't have heraldry tho
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—
Are you a heathen? How do you understand the Bible? The Scripture says Adam dug the earth. Could he dig without his arms? I'll ask you another question. If you don't answer properly, you'll have to confess—
What, are you a heathen? Don't you know Scripture? It says Adam dug. How could he dig without his arms? I've got another question for you. If you can't answer it right, you better confess—
r u even christian? adam dug earth. how could he dig without arms? answer my next question or confess
Go to.
Go ahead.
Sure.
go ahead
What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright,
or the carpenter?
What person builds more solidly than a stonemason, a shipbuilder, or a carpenter?
Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?
who builds stronger than masons, shipwrights, carpenters
The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.
The gallows-maker, because that structure outlasts a thousand generations of people.
The gallows-maker, because his scaffold outlives a thousand tenants.
the gallows maker. that structure outlives thousands of people
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 truly like your wit—the gallows answer works well. But how does it work well? It works well for people who do evil. Now you're doing wrong to say the gallows are built stronger than the church. Therefore, maybe the gallows will do well for you. Try again.
Nice one, I like that—the gallows works well. But how does it work well? It helps people who do bad things, right? Now you're wrong to say gallows are built stronger than a church. So maybe the gallows will do well for you. Try the riddle again.
nice try but gallows do good to bad people. u said gallows stronger than church = wrong. gallows might do good for u. try again
Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?
Who builds more solidly than a stonemason, a shipbuilder, or a carpenter?
So who can build something that lasts longer than those guys?
who builds more solid than them tho
Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.
Yes, tell me that and you can take a break.
Yeah, if you figure that one out, you're done.
yeah solve that and u can rest
Marry, now I can tell.
Well, now I think I can answer it.
Okay, now I think I got it.
ok now i got it
To’t.
Go on.
Go ahead.
well
Mass, I cannot tell.
Actually, I can't answer it.
Actually, I got nothing.
nah i can't actually
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.
Stop beating your brains over it because a stupid donkey won't go faster from being hit. When they ask you this next time, just say 'a grave-maker.' The houses he builds last until the end of time. Go, get yourself to Yaughan and bring me a cup of liquor.
Stop torturing your brain—you're like a dumb donkey, beating won't make you faster. Next time they ask you, just say grave-maker. The houses he builds last till doomsday. Now go to Yaughan and get me a drink.
stop thinking so hard. ur like a dumb donkey. say 'gravedigger' next time. we build houses that last forever. go get me a drink
In youth when I did love, did love,
Methought it was very sweet;
To contract, O, the time for, a, my behove,
O methought there was nothing meet.
In my youth when I did love, I thought It was very sweet. To make a promise, oh, at the right time for me, Oh I thought there was nothing better.
When I was young and in love, I thought It was wonderful. To get engaged, at just the right moment, Oh I thought nothing could be better.
when i was young and in love i thought it was everything to get engaged
Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at
grave-making?
Doesn't this man feel any emotion about his work, that he's singing while digging graves?
How is this guy singing while he's digging graves? Doesn't the job bother him at all?
how is he singing while digging graves lol
Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.
Habit has made it a natural quality in him—it feels easy now.
He's done it so long it's just natural to him—doesn't bother him anymore.
habit made it feel easy for him
’Tis e’en so; the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.
That's true. Hands that do little work have more sensitive feelings.
Yeah, exactly. People who don't work much are way more sensitive.
yep. ppl who don't work much are more sensitive
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.
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.
But age with his quiet steps has caught me in his grasp, and has transported me to the grave, as if I had never been young.
But old age creeps in with silent steps and grabs me in its grip, and sends me into the ground, like I was never anything before.
age crept up with silent steps grabs me in its grip sends me to the ground like i was never anything
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?
That skull once had a tongue and could sing. How roughly the fool throws it to the ground, as if it were the jawbone of Cain, who committed the first murder! This might be the head of a politician whom this fool now tosses around carelessly, a man who tried to outwit God—couldn't it be?
That skull used to have a tongue and could sing. And now this idiot just throws it on the ground like it's nothing—like it's Cain's jawbone, you know, the first murderer. This could be some politician who was always trying to outsmart God, and now this gravedigger's just tossing him around.
this skull used to sing now some fool throws it around like trash maybe it's some politician who tried to beat god grim stuff
It might, my lord.
It could very well be, my lord.
That sounds about right.
probably
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?
Or maybe a courtier who would say 'Good morning, my sweet lord! How are you, good lord?' This could be Lord So-and-so, who praised Lord Such-and-such's horse when he was really trying to get him to give it to him. Couldn't it?
Or maybe it's some courtier who was always saying 'Good morning, my lord, how are you, my lord?' This could be that guy who flattered somebody's horse just to get it for himself.
could be some courtier who said 'good morning my lord' flattered somebody's horse just to steal it maybe
Ay, my lord.
Yes, my lord.
Yeah, it could be.
yep
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.
Yes, exactly. Now she belongs to Lady Worm. Jawless and bashed around the head with a sexton's spade. What a glorious transformation, if we could see it clearly. Were these bones worth raising only so they could be tossed around in a game? My bones ache thinking about it.
Yeah, so now she belongs to Lady Worm—no jaw left, getting whacked around by a gravedigger's spade. What a fine turnaround, if we could really see it. Were we born and raised just to get our bones batted around like a game? It makes my bones hurt thinking about it.
now lady worm's property jawless, knocked around with a spade were we born just for that hurts to think about
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.
A pickaxe and a spade, a spade, and a burial shroud; O, a pit of clay that must be made is fitting for such a guest.
A pickaxe and a spade, a spade, and a burial sheet; A pit of clay that's got to be dug is right for somebody like this.
pickaxe and spade burial shroud a pit of clay that's what's needed
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?
Here's another skull. Why can't it be a lawyer's skull? Where are his clever arguments now, his legal tricks, his cases, his property rights, and his schemes? Why does he allow this rude gravedigger to bang him around the head with a dirty shovel without suing him for assault? Hm. This fellow might have been a major landowner once, with all his legal documents, contracts, written agreements, mortgage guarantees, and property recoveries. Is this how it ends—his fine intellect full of fine dirt? Will his legal guarantees protect his property purchases, even the ones with double coverage, any better than the length of a legal deed? All his property documents wouldn't even fit in this skull box, and the heir gets nothing either?
Here's another one. Could be a lawyer's skull. So where are all his clever arguments now? His legal tricks, his cases, his land deals, all his schemes? Why doesn't he sue this gravedigger for beating him with a shovel? Ha. This guy was probably a big property dealer once—had all the legal documents, contracts, guarantees, fancy insurance, everything. And for what? So his brain ends up full of dirt? Do all his fancy legal protections mean anything now for his land? No, they don't even fit in this hole. The heir gets just as much—nothing.
another skull. maybe a lawyer. where's all his clever arguments why doesn't he sue this gravedigger he had all the deeds and contracts for what? to end up full of dirt lands don't fit in this box either
Not a jot more, my lord.
Not one bit more, my lord.
Not at all, my lord.
nope
Is not parchment made of sheep-skins?
Isn't parchment made from sheepskin?
Isn't parchment made from sheep?
isn't parchment made of sheepskin
Ay, my lord, and of calf-skins too.
Yes, my lord, and from calf-skin as well.
That's right, plus they use calfskin too.
also calf-skin
They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I will
speak to this fellow.—Whose grave’s this, sir?
People are like sheep and calves, trusting in those documents for security. I'll speak to this man. Whose grave is this, sir?
People are like dumb animals seeking safety in those legal papers. Let me talk to this guy. Whose grave is this?
ppl r like sheep and calves trusting papers let me ask him whose grave is this
Mine, sir.
Mine, sir.
Mine.
mine
O, a pit of clay for to be made
For such a guest is meet.
Oh, a pit of clay should be made For such a guest as this.
Oh, a grave of clay should be dug For someone like this.
a grave for this person
I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in’t.
I think it is indeed yours, since you're lying in it.
Yeah, I'd say it's yours, since you're lying in it.
it's urs since ur lying in it lol
You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore ’tis not yours.
For my part, I do not lie in’t, yet it is mine.
You lie outside it, sir, so it's not yours. As for me, I don't lie in it yet, but it is mine.
You're outside it, so it's not yours. Me? I'm not in it yet, but it's still mine.
ur outside so not urs. i'm not in it yet but it's mine
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.
You're lying by being in it and claiming it's yours. It's meant for the dead, not the living, so you're lying.
You're lying—you're in it but you're not dead, so it's not really yours. It's for the dead, not the living.
ur lying. it's for the dead not the living. ur still alive
’Tis a quick lie, sir; ’t will away again from me to you.
It's a living lie, sir; it will pass from me to you.
It's a living lie, and it'll come back to you.
it's a living lie. it'll pass to u
What man dost thou dig it for?
What man are you digging it for?
Who's the grave for?
who's this grave for
For no man, sir.
For nobody, sir.
Not for any man, sir.
no one
What woman then?
For a woman then?
A woman?
a woman
For none neither.
For neither, sir.
Neither one.
nope
Who is to be buried in’t?
Who is to be buried in it?
So who's actually getting buried here?
who u burying here
One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she’s dead.
Someone who was a woman, sir, but rest her soul, she's dead now.
A woman, sir. But she's dead now, God rest her soul.
she was a woman. but she's dead now. rip
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?
How literal this fool is! We have to speak precisely or ambiguity will destroy us. Horatio, I've been noticing this for three years now—society has become so refined that a peasant's toe is now on the heel of a courtier and bothering him. How long have you been a gravedigger?
This guy's so literal! We have to be super precise or we'll get confused. Horatio, I've noticed this for three years—society's gotten so refined that peasants are stepping on the heels of courtiers. How long have you been a gravedigger?
he's so literal society's too refined peasants r stepping on courtiers now how long u been digging graves
Of all the days i’ th’ year, I came to’t that day that our last King
Hamlet o’ercame Fortinbras.
Out of all the days in the year, I started on the day that our late King Hamlet defeated Fortinbras.
I started on the day King Hamlet beat Fortinbras.
started the day king hamlet beat fortinbras
How long is that since?
How long ago was that?
How much time has passed since then?
when was that
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.
Don't you know that? Every fool knows that. It was the day young Hamlet was born—the one who's gone mad and been sent to England.
You don't even know that? Everyone knows that. That was the day young Hamlet was born—the crazy one they sent to England.
that's the day young hamlet was born the one who's gone mad sent to england
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.
Ay, marry, why was he sent into England?
Yes indeed, why was he sent to England?
But what was the reason for sending him there?
but why england tho
Why, because he was mad; he shall recover his wits there; or if he do
not, it’s no great matter there.
Because he was mad, and he'll recover his mind there. Or if he doesn't, it won't matter much in England.
Because he's crazy. He'll get better there. Or if he doesn't, nobody in England will care.
cuz he's mad. he'll get better in england. or nobody there will notice if he doesn't
Why?
Why is that?
Why's that?
why
’Twill not be seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he.
It won't be noticeable in him there because the men there are just as mad as he is.
Nobody will notice because everyone in England's just as crazy.
nobody'll notice cuz all the men there r just as mad
How came he mad?
How did he go mad?
What made him lose his mind?
what happened to him
Very strangely, they say.
In a most unusual way, so they say.
According to everyone, it was really odd.
went down weird apparently
How strangely?
What do you mean by strangely?
How was it strange?
how was it weird
Faith, e’en with losing his wits.
By losing his mind, truly.
By going out of his mind.
by losing his mind i guess
Upon what ground?
For what reason?
Why did that happen?
why
Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty
years.
Here in Denmark. I've been a sexton here since I was a boy—thirty years.
Right here in Denmark. I've been a sexton here my whole life—thirty years.
here in denmark. been sexton for 30 years
How long will a man lie i’ th’earth ere he rot?
How long does a man stay in the earth before he rots?
How long before a body rots in the ground?
how long b4 a body rots
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.
Well, if he's not already rotten before he dies—and we have plenty of diseased corpses these days that can barely stay intact when being buried—he'll last about eight or nine years. A tanner will last you nine years.
If the body isn't already rotten when he dies—and we have lots of diseased corpses nowadays that fall apart when you bury them—he lasts about eight or nine years. A tanner lasts nine.
if not rotten already - lots of diseased bodies that fall apart - lasts 8-9 years. tanners last 9
Why he more than another?
Why does a tanner last longer than someone else?
Why do tanners last longer?
why tanners longer
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.
His skin is so toughened by his trade that it keeps out water for a long time. And water really accelerates decay in a corpse. This skull here has been in the ground twenty-three years.
His skin is so hardened from his work that it keeps water out. Water is what really rots a dead body. This skull I've got here has been in the ground twenty-three years.
his skin is toughened, keeps water out. water decays bodies. this skull's been here 23 years
Whose was it?
Whose skull was it?
Whose skull is it?
whose was it
A whoreson, mad fellow’s it was. Whose do you think it was?
It was a crazy bastard's skull. Whose do you think it was?
Belongs to some crazy guy. You wanna guess?
some crazy bastard's. wanna guess
Nay, I know not.
No, I don't know.
No idea.
no clue
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.
A curse on him, the crazy rogue! He once poured a flagon of wine on my head. This skull here was Yorick's—the King's jester.
Damn that crazy bastard! He once poured wine on my head. This is Yorick's skull—the King's jester.
damn him. he poured wine on my head once. this is yorick's skull. king's jester
This?
This one?
This is?
this
E’en that.
That's the one.
Yeah.
yep
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.
Let me see. [Takes the skull.] Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite wit and most excellent imagination. He carried me on his back a thousand times; and now how disgusting it seems to me! My stomach turns at it. Here hung those lips that I kissed I know not how many times. Where are your jokes now? your dancing? your songs? your flashes of merriment that used to make everyone laugh? Not one now to mock your own grinning skull? Completely broken? Now go to a noblewoman's chamber and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this appearance she must come. Make her laugh at that.—I beg you, Horatio, tell me one thing.
Let me see. [Takes the skull.] Oh, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio—a man with infinite humor and brilliant imagination. He used to carry me on his back all the time, and now to think of him like this makes me sick. My stomach churns. Those lips I kissed so many times—where are your jokes now? your dancing? your songs? your humor that got everyone laughing? Can't even mock your own grinning skull anymore? Completely humbled? Go tell some lady in her chamber, no matter how much makeup she paints on, this is what she'll look like. Make her laugh at that.—Please, Horatio, tell me one thing.
[takes skull] alas poor yorick i knew him horatio infinite humor brilliant imagination carried me on his back now it's disgusting those lips i kissed where's the jokes? the dancing? the songs? the laughter? nothing tell a lady no makeup will help she'll end up like this horatio answer me one thing
What’s that, my lord?
What is it, my lord?
What, sir?
what
Dost thou think Alexander looked o’ this fashion i’ th’earth?
Do you think Alexander the Great looked like this buried in the earth?
Think Alexander the Great ended up looking like this in the ground?
u think even alexander the great looked like this buried
E’en so.
Yes, just like this.
Yeah, probably.
yep
And smelt so? Pah!
And smelled the same? Ugh!
And smelled just as bad? Gross!
and smelled like it too. gross
E’en so, my lord.
That's right, my lord.
Yes, my lord.
yep, my lord
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?
Think of the degrading things we might become, Horatio! Why can't we imagine Alexander the Great's dust, once so noble, ending up stopping a hole in a barrel?
What disgusting things we might end up as, Horatio! I mean, why couldn't great Alexander's remains end up as a stopper for a beer barrel?
think about it why couldn't alexander's dust end up as a beer barrel plug
’Twere to consider too curiously to consider so.
That would be overthinking it too much to analyze it that way.
You're way overthinking it if you look at it that way.
too much thinking don't go there
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.
No, not at all. But if we follow that line of thinking reasonably, look at it this way. Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander turned into dust. That dust becomes earth. We make loam from earth. So why couldn't they use that loam—what he became—to stop a beer barrel? Great Caesar, once powerful, dead and turned to clay, might now stop a hole to keep the wind out. Think of it: that same earth which held the world in awe, now used to patch a wall against winter's drafts. But wait! Be quiet! Here comes the King.
No, come on. But actually think about it logically: Alexander died, got buried, became dust. That dust is dirt. We make loam from dirt. So why couldn't they use that loam—his remains—to plug a beer barrel? Even powerful Caesar, dead and turned to clay, could stop a hole to keep the wind away. The earth that used to impress the whole world now patches a wall to block winter's cold. But wait, quiet! The King's coming.
alexander died and became dust which became earth which they used to plug a beer barrel even caesar's clay now stops a draft the earth that ruled the world now patches a wall wait—king's here
Mourners following; King, Queen, their Trains, &c.
The Queen, the courtiers. Who is that they follow?
And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken
The corse they follow did with desperate hand
Fordo it own life. ’Twas of some estate.
Couch we awhile and mark.
The mourners are coming; the King, Queen, and their followers. The Queen and the courtiers. Who is that they're following? And with such incomplete funeral rites? This suggests That the body they follow was someone who killed themselves by their own hand. This person must have been of some importance. Let's hide for now and watch.
Here comes the funeral procession; the King and Queen with their followers. They're with the Queen and her court. Who are they carrying? And why are the funeral rites so incomplete? This means The person they're burying killed themselves. This was someone important. Let's stay hidden and watch.
funeral coming king and queen following whos body is that ritual looks incomplete someone killed themselves lets wait and see
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.
What ceremony else?
What other ceremonies should there be?
Is there anything else in the ceremony?
anything else?
That is Laertes, a very noble youth. Mark.
That's Laertes, a very noble young man. Pay attention.
That's Laertes over there—really impressive young guy. Watch him.
that's laertes very noble watch
What ceremony else?
What other ceremonies should there be?
Is there anything else in the ceremony?
anything else?
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.
Her funeral has been as elaborate as we're allowed to make it. Her death was questionable—she might have taken her own life—and only because the King overruled normal procedure would she get this burial at all. Otherwise she'd be buried in unsanctified ground until the resurrection. For someone under suspicion, we'd only throw broken pottery, flints, and pebbles on her grave. But here she is, allowed her virginal funeral rites, her maiden flowers, and a proper burial with bells.
We've done the best funeral we can for her. The thing is, her death looks suspicious—it might have been suicide—so normally the church wouldn't allow a regular burial. The King had to override the rules to let us bury her here in holy ground. Usually someone like that would get nothing but broken pottery and rocks thrown on her grave. But because of the King's authority, she gets her full virgin funeral, flowers, the bells, everything.
did the best funeral we could her death was questionable usually no consecrated burial but the king overruled it she got proper rites
Must there no more be done?
Shouldn't there be more done for her?
Isn't there more we should do for her?
more we should do?
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, nothing more should be done. It would be wrong to hold an elaborate funeral service for her like we would for someone who died in peace. We shouldn't sing requiems for her the way we would for souls at peace.
No more. We shouldn't do a full religious service for her. It wouldn't be right to sing requiems for her like we do for people who died properly. She didn't die in peace.
nothing more can't sing requiems for her she didn't die in peace
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.
Lay her in the earth. May violets spring from her pure and beautiful body. I'm telling you, this crude priest, my sister will be a ministering angel while you're burning in hell.
Put her in the ground. May flowers grow from her beautiful, pure body. Listen here, you callous priest—my sister will be an angel in heaven while you're burning in hell.
bury her flowers will grow from her you'll burn in hell she'll be an angel
What, the fair Ophelia?
What? The beautiful Ophelia?
What? You mean beautiful Ophelia?
ophelia? no
[_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.
Good things for the good. Goodbye. I had hoped you would have been my Hamlet's wife. I thought I'd decorate your wedding bed, sweet girl, not strew flowers on your grave.
Good things for a good person. Goodbye. I had hoped you'd marry my Hamlet. I thought I'd be decorating your wedding room, not your grave, dear.
flowers 4 u. i wanted u 2 b hamlets wife :( sry its ur grave not wedding bed
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.
Triple sorrow—thirty times over—fall on whoever's wicked deed stole your brilliant mind. Wait, don't bury her yet. Let me hold her once more.
May triple grief—thirty times over—fall on whoever did this to you and made you lose your mind. Hold on, don't bury her yet. Let me hold her one more time.
triple sorrow on whoever did this don't bury her yet let me hold her once more
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.
Now pile up your dirt on the living and the dead, Until from this flat ground you have made a mountain, To rise higher than old Pelion or the high peak Of blue Olympus.
Now throw all the dirt on top, on both the living and the dead, Until you've made a mountain out of this flat ground, Higher than Pelion or the peak Of Olympus itself.
pile all the dirt make a mountain higher than olympus
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.
Who is this person whose grief is so intense, whose words of sorrow are so powerful that they move even the stars to stop and listen like amazed listeners? I am—Hamlet of Denmark.
Who's this guy whose grief is so powerful, whose words are so moving that even the stars stop to listen in shock? It's me. I'm Hamlet.
whose grief is that powerful? whose words move the stars? it's me hamlet
[_Grappling with him._] The devil take thy soul!
May the devil take your soul!
The devil can have you!
go 2 hell
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!
You're not praying—you're fighting! Get your hands off my throat. Even though I'm not quick to anger or hasty, I have something dangerous in me. You should be afraid of that. Let go!
You're not grieving—you're attacking! Get your hands off me. Look, I'm not hotheaded or rash, but I've got something dark in me. You should fear that. Let go!
get your hands off i'm not rash but i'm dangerous let go
Pluck them asunder.
Pull them apart.
Separate them.
break it up
Hamlet! Hamlet!
All.
Gentlemen!
Hamlet! Hamlet! Gentlemen!
Hamlet! Hamlet! Everyone!
hamlet! stop!
Good my lord, be quiet.
Please, my lord, calm down.
Sir, you need to calm down.
chill, sir
Why, I will fight with him upon this theme
Until my eyelids will no longer wag.
I will argue with him about this until I'm dead—until my eyelids won't open anymore.
I'll keep fighting with him about this until the day I die.
i'll fight him til i'm dead no surrender
O my son, what theme?
Oh my son, what are you talking about?
What are you going on about?
what're you talking about
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?
I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers couldn't add up to the amount of love I have. What will you do for her?
I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers combined couldn't match how much I loved her. What are you going to do for her?
i loved ophelia more than 40,000 brothers what'll you do for her?
O, he is mad, Laertes.
He's gone mad, Laertes.
He's lost it, Laertes.
he's crazy
For love of God forbear him!
For God's sake, leave him alone!
Leave him be, for God's sake!
leave him alone please
’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.
Show me what you'll do! Will you weep? Fight? Fast? Tear yourself apart? Drink vinegar? Eat a crocodile? I'll do it. Are you just here to complain? To outdo me by jumping in her grave? I'll be buried alive with her too. If you talk about piling mountains on her grave, let them pile millions of acres on us until the earth reaches so high it becomes a wart on the sun. But if you're going to keep ranting, I'll rant just as loud.
Show me what you can do! You gonna cry? Fight? Starve yourself? Tear yourself up? Drink vinegar? Eat a crocodile? I'll do it. You just here to whine about it? Trying to outdo me by throwing yourself in her grave? I'll get buried with her. If you want to pile mountains on her, pile millions of acres on us—pile it so high it makes the world's highest mountains look like a pimple. If you're gonna keep screaming, I'll scream louder.
show me what you'll do weep? fight? starve? i'll do it if you jump in her grave i will too if you pile mountains on her i'll pile higher if you rant i'll rant louder
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.
This is just madness. This fit of emotion will consume him for a while. Soon, like a mother dove who has just had her chicks hatch, he'll become patient and quiet, and his silence will hang heavy.
This is just his madness talking. This emotional outburst won't last long. Soon he'll calm down like a dove with her new chicks, and he'll just go quiet.
he's mad it'll pass soon he'll be quiet like a dove
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.
Listen to me, sir. Why are you treating me this way? I've always loved you. But it doesn't matter. Even if Hercules tried to stop it, nature takes its course—the cat will meow and the dog will have his day.
Listen, why are you doing this to me? I've always cared about you. But whatever. Even if the strongest man alive tried to stop it, nature keeps going. The cat will meow, the dog will have his turn. Life goes on.
why're you treating me like this i always loved you but it doesn't matter everyone gets their turn
I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.
I beg you, good Horatio, watch over him.
Horatio, please keep an eye on him.
watch him for me
Strengthen your patience in our last night’s speech;
We’ll put the matter to the present push.—
Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son.
This grave shall have a living monument.
An hour of quiet shortly shall we see;
Till then in patience our proceeding be.
Strengthen your patience based on what we discussed last night. We'll take action right now. Good Gertrude, watch over your son carefully. This grave will have a living monument—his revenge. We'll have an hour of peace soon enough. Until then, let's proceed patiently.
Be patient, like we talked about last night. We're going to act on this now. Gertrude, keep an eye on your son. This grave will lead to something—his revenge. We'll have peace soon enough. For now, let's just be patient and wait.
b patient like we talked were moving forward now watch ur son shell b avenged peace coming soon
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.