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0, a pit of clay for to be made
For snch a guest is meet.
Ham. I think it be thine, indeed, for thou liest in't.
Gra. You lie out on't, Sir, and therefore it is 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.
Grå. 'Tis a quick lie, Sir ; 'twill away again, from me to you.
Gra. 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 ?
Gra. Of all the days i'the year, I cam to't that day that our last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.
Ham. How long's that since ?
Gra. Cannot you tell that? every fool can tell that: It was that very day that young Hamlet was born : he that is mad, and sent into England.
Ham. Ay, marry, why was he sent into England.
Gra. Why, because he was mad : he shall recover his wits there : or, if he do not, 'tis no great matter there.
Gra. 'Twill not be seen in him there ; there the men are as mad as he.
Ham. How came he mad ?
Gra. 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.
Gra. 'Faith, if he be not rotten before he die, (as we have many pocky corses now-a-days, that will scarce hold the laying in,) he will last you some eight year, or nine year: a tanner will last you nine year.
Ham. Why he more than another ?
Gra. Why, Sir, his hide is so tanned 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 scull now hath lain you i'the earth, three-and-twenty years.
Ham. Whose was it.
Gra. A whoreson mad fellow's it was. Whose do you think it was?
Ham. Nay, I know not. Gra. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! he poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same scull, Sir, was Yorick's scull, the king's jester.
Ham. This? Gra. E'en that. Ham. 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 a table on a roar ? Not one now, to mock your own grinning ? 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 fasion i'the earth?
Hor. E'en so.
Ham. 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.
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 returned to 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 Cæsar dead, and turn’d to clay,
It's very hard, and so it is,
To live in such a row;
But me has got a beau :
But here he seems to shun;
To call at Number One.
I'm sick of all the double knocks
That come to Number Four ;
A lover at the door.
Calls daily like a dun ;
And not to Number One.
Miss Bell, I hear, has got a dear
Exactly to her mind,
Without a bit of blind.
Which she has never done,
Don't take at Number One.
'Tis hard with plenty in the street,
And plenty passing by-
But only rather shy.
Has got a grown-up son;
There is a Number One.
There's Mr. Wick at Number Nine,
But he's intent on pelf,
His neighbour as himself.
The goods had quite a run ;
On hand at Number One.
My mother often sits at work,
And talks of props and stays;
In her declining days.
Have set me down a nun;
That call at Number One.
Once only, when the flue took fire,
One Friday afternoon,
And told me not to swoon.
The Phænix and the sun ? We cannot always have a fiue
On fire at Number One.
I am not old, I am not plain,
Nor awkward in my gait;
That went from Number Eight.
As brown as any bun;
I think at Number One.
At Number Six, they say Miss Rose
Has slain a score of hearts; And Cupid for her sake has been
Quite prodigal of darts.
I wish he had a gun;
To shoot at Number One.
It's very hard, and so it is,
To live in such a row;
To aggravate my woe.
And tones enough to stun!
I know at Number One.
PADDY AND THE BEAR.
About the time I was a boy, Archy Thompson lived in Cushendall, lower part of the county Antrim. He was a great man ; kept a grocer's shop, was like Jack Factotum,
--sold every thing portable ; he was a ponderous fellow, wore a wig like a beehive, and was called king of Cushendall. He one night found a male child at the shop door some months old ; he embraced it-swore he would keep it, and was as fond of him as ever Squire Allworthy was of Tom Jones. A woman was sent for to nurse him; they called her Snouter Shaughnessy, because she wanted the nose.-Snouter had no suck, and poor Paddy (for so he was christened) was spoon-fed, and soon grew a stout, well-built fellow : and to show his gratitude, (for Paddy had a heart) would do all about the house himself. He was like Scrub in the Beaux Stratagem, servant of all work ; he milked the cow, he dunged the byre, and thatched it ; he went to market; he soled the shoes ; he cleaned the knives ; he shaved ; and powdered his master's wig, which, after being drenched in a journey, he would put a poker in the fire, and change it from its state of flaccidity to its pristine form, as well as Charley Boyand, or ever a peruke maker among them. Paddy's delight was in frequenting wakes, listening with avidity to any thing marvellous.—His master being at Belfast, he went to old Brien Sollaghan's wake, where a lad just from a foreign voyage was telling stories out of the course of nature, improbable. Paddy believed all but something about blackamoors, he was relating ; for he swore “'twas impossible for one man to be black and another man white, for he could not be naturally black without he was painted; but I'll ask the master in the morning, when he comes hoine, and then I'll know all about it.” So he says in the morning, “ Master, is there any such thing as a blackamoor ?" “ To be sure there is, as many as would make regiments of them, but they're all abroad." 66 And what inakes them black ?” “ Why it's the climate, they say.”. what's the climate ?" “ Why I don't know : I beiieve it's something they rub upon them when they're very young."
They must have a deal of it, and very cheap, if there's as many of them as you say.—The next time you're in Belfast, I wish you'd get a piece of it, and we'll rub little Barney over with it, and then we can have a blackamoor of our own. But as I'm going in the Irish Volunteer, from Larne to America, in the spring, I'll see them there." Paddy went over as a redemptioner, and had to serve as time for his passage.