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.

I Clo. 'Tis a quick lie, sir; 'twill away again, from me to you.

Ham. What man dost thou dig it for?

I Clo. For no man, sir.

Ham. What woman, then?

I Clo. For none, neither.

Ham. Who is to be buried in't?

I Clo. 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 gravemaker?

I Clo. Of all the days i' the year, I came to 't that day that our last king-Hamlet, o'ercame Fortinbras,

Ham. How long is that since?

I Clo. Cannot you tell that? every fool can tell that it was the very day that young Hamlet was born: he that was mad, and sent into England.

Ham. Ay, marry, why was he sent into England? I Clo. Why, because he was mad: he shall recover his wits there; or, if he do not; 'tis no great matter there.

Ham. Why?

I Clo. 'Twill not be seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he.

Ham. How came he mad?

I Clo. Very strangely, they say.
Ham. How strangely?

I Clo. 'Faith, c'en with losing his wits.
Ham. Upon what ground?

I Clo. Why, here in Denmark: I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty years.

Ham. How long will a man lie i' the earth ere he rot?

I Clo. 'Faith, he will last you some eight year or nine. Here's a skull now; this skull hath lain you i' the earth three and twenty years.

Ham. Whose was it?

I Clo. A mad fellow's it was: whose do you think it was?

Ham. Nay, I know not.

I Clo. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue? 'a poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick's skull, the king's jester.

Ham. This?

I Clo. E'en that.

Ham. 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 kissed 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 jeering? quite chap-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.Pr'ythee, Horatio, tell me one thing.

Hor. What's that my lord?

Ham. Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i' the earth?

Hor. E'en so.

Ham. And smelt so? pah! [Puts down the skull. Hor. E'en so, my lord.

Ham. To what base uses may we return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping a bung-hole?

Hor. 'Twere to consider too curiously, to consider so.

Ham. 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?

Imperial Cæsar, 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!

IMAGINATION.

MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. ACT V. SCENE I.

"The poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling,

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven, And, as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen

Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name."

0

GLORY.

KING HENRY VI. PART I. ACT I. SCENE I.

"Glory is like a circle in the water

Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself,

Till, by broad spreading, it disperses to nought."

MAUD MÜLLER.-(J. G. Whittier.)

Maud Müller, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadows sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast,-
A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadows across the road.

She stopped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaff'd."

He spoke of the grass, and flowers, and trees,
Of the singing birds, and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles, bare and brown;
And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

Maud Müller looked and sighed: "Ah, me!
That I the judge's bride might be!

"He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.

My father should wear a broad-cloth coat : My brother should sail a painted boat.

"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day. "And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door."

The judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Müller standing still,—

"A form more fair, a face more sweet,N'er hath it been my lot to meet.

"And her modest answer and graceful air, Show her wise and good as she is fair,

"Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay;

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, And weary lawyers with endless tongues,