Laer. O! treble woe 270
Fall ten times treble on that cursed head
Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense
Depriv'd thee of. Hold off the earth awhile,
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, 276
To o'er-top old Pelion or the skyish head
Of blue Olympus.
Ham. [Advancing.] What is he whose grief
Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow 279
Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand
Like wonder-wounded hearers? this is I,
Hamlet the Dane. [Leaps into the grave.]
Laer. The devil take thy soul! 282
[Grapples with him.]
Ham. 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, 286
Which let thy wisdom fear. Away thy hand!
King. Pluck them asunder.
Queen. Hamlet! Hamlet!
All. Gentlemen,—
Hor. Good my lord, be quiet.
[The Attendants part them, and they come out of the grave.]
Ham. Why, I will fight with him upon this theme 290
Until my eyelids will no longer wag.
Queen. O my son! what theme?
272 ingenious: delicately sensitive
277 Pelion; cf. n.
280 wandering stars: planets
285 splenetive: quick-tempered
