1. Scene I. A churchyard.
Not a jot more, my lord.
Is not parchment made of sheep-skins?
Ay, my lord, And of calf-skins too.
They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I
will speak to this fellow.--Whose grave's this, sir?
O, a pit of clay for to be made
For such a guest is meet.
I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in't.
You lie out on't, sir, and therefore 'tis not yours: for my part,
I do not lie in't, yet it is 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.
'Tis a quick lie, sir; 't will away again from me to you.
What man dost thou dig it for?
For no man, sir.
What woman then?
For none neither.
Who is to be buried in't?
One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she's dead.
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?
Of all the days i' the year, I came to't that day that our
last King Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.