1 Clown.
[Sings.]
   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.

[Throws up another skull].

Ham.  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?

Hor. 
Not a jot more, my lord.

Ham. 
Is not parchment made of sheep-skins?

Hor. 
Ay, my lord, And of calf-skins too.

Ham. 
They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that.  I
will speak to this fellow.—­Whose grave’s this, sir?

1 Clown. 
Mine, sir.
[Sings.]
   O, a pit of clay for to be made
     For such a guest is meet.

Ham. 
I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in’t.

1 Clown.  You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore ’tis not yours:  for my part, I do not lie in’t, yet it is mine.

Ham. 
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.

1 Clown.  ’Tis a quick lie, sir; ’t will away again from me to you.

Ham. 
What man dost thou dig it for?

1 Clown.  For no man, sir.

Ham. 
What woman then?

1 Clown.  For none neither.

Ham. 
Who is to be buried in’t?

1 Clown.  One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she’s dead.

Ham.  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?

1 Clown.  Of all the days i’ the year, I came to’t that day that our last King Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.

Ham. 
How long is that since?

1 Clown.  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.

Ham. 
Ay, marry, why was be sent into England?

1 Clown.  Why, because he was mad:  he shall recover his wits there; or, if he do not, it’s no great matter there.