As we have warranty: Her death was doubtful;
And, but that great command o'ersways the order,[33]
She should in ground unsanctified have lodged
Till the last trumpet; for charitable prayers,
Shards,[34] flints, and pebbles, should be thrown on her:
Yet here she is allowed her virgin crants,[35]
Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home
Of bell and burial.[36]

_Laer._ Must there no more be done?

_1st Priest._ No more be done:
We should profane the service of the dead
To sing a _requiem_,[37] and such rest to her
As to peace-parted souls.

_Laer._ O, from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest,[38]
A ministering angel shall my sister be,
When thou liest howling.

_Ham._ What, the fair Ophelia!

_Queen._

(_Behind the grave_, C. _with the_ KING.)

Sweets to the sweet: Farewell!

[_Scattering flowers._]

I hop'd thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife;
I thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid,
And not have strew'd thy grave.

_Laer._ O, treble woe
Fall ten times treble on that cursed head,
Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense[39]
Depriv'd thee of!--Hold off the earth a while,
Till I have caught her once more in mine arms:

[_Leaps into the grave._]

Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead,
Till of this flat a mountain you have made,
To o'ertop old Pelion,[40] or the skyish head
Of blue Olympus.

_Ham._

(_Advancing._)

What is he whose grief
Bears such an emphasis?--whose phrase of sorrow
Conjures the wand'ring stars, and makes them stand
Like wonder-wounded hearers?--this is I,
Hamlet the Dane.

_Laer._

(L., _leaping from the grave._)

The devil take thy soul!

[_Grappling with him._]

_Ham._ (R.C.) Thou pray'st not well.
I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat;
For, though I am not splenetive and rash,
Yet have I in me something dangerous,
Which let thy wisdom fear: Hold off thy hand!

_King._ Pluck them asunder.

_Queen._ (C.) Hamlet, Hamlet!

_Ham._ (R.C.) Why, I will fight with him upon this theme
Until my eyelids will no longer wag.

_Queen._ O my son, what theme?

_Ham._ I lov'd Ophelia: forty thousand brothers
Could not, with all their quantity of love,
Make up my sum.--What wil