(Sings.) A captain bold in Halifax, Who liv'd in country quarters, Stop-stop-I've brought some fruit:-for you, sweet Queen, The finest cabbage that was ever seen; For you a bunch of carrots; and for you A turnip and I'll eat a turnip too. To bring a rope of onions, (f) too, I tried, Well, there's an end of him!-he's gone!-aye, true- SONG-OPHELIA. And will he not come again? He is knock'd o' the head, And than mutton more dead, And never will come again, His beard was as white as my shift, For grieving's a folly, And never will save his soul. [Exeunt Ophelia and Queen, King. Laertes, I lament your situation: But come; we'll have a private conversation, You may depend on ample reparation. His shabby fun'ral too Laertes. O sad reproach! Not e'en attended by a morning-coach; No mutes, no pall-bearers, and (what's still worse) King. You shall.-Tip us your daddle: But on the right horse see you place the saddle. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Another Room in the Palace. Enter KING and LAERTES. King. And now, my cock of wax, I've prov'd that I Thinking to murder me, did Hamlet kill him. Laertes. O, let me catch him, and I'll sweetly mill him (g). King. That may you speedily.-E'en now I've learn'd, Now, I've a scheme will suit us to a T; Laertes. I will be rul'd by you; but plan it so, King. "Tis rumour'd you're a famous pugilist ;- Laertes. To give him a sound drubbing I'll engage, Sir: Depend upon't, who's who I'll let him know.. King. Contrive to give him an unlucky blow.- And when he's hot and thirsty with the fight, Luertes. Right! Enter QUEEN. Queen. Misfortunes ne'er come singly, oft I've found; SONG.-QUEEN. (Tune-Our Polly is a sad slut.”) Ophelia is a sad slut! In spite of all I'd taught her, And fell into the water. An envious bramble near the ditch Fast by the ankle caught her, Slap-dash into the water. Laertes. Oh! I've a speech of fire; but, like a spout, King. I've had enough ado to keep him quiet, [Exit. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. A Church-Yard. GRAVEDIGGER discovered digging a Grave. SONG. GRAvedigger. (Tune-"Black Joke.") O, long life to the sons of the pick-axe and spade, With my dig, dig, pick-axe and spade. In the hist❜ry of all early states 'twill be found, With my dig, dig, pick-axe and spade. Whilst the GRAVEDIGGER is singing this Verse, Hamlet. This fellow digs and sings-unfeeling knave! He's making merry of a trade that's grave. Use, Sir, is second nature. Horatio. Hamlet. On reflection, I think I'd do the same were I a sexton. |