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,
To o'ertop old Pelion or the skyish head
Of blue Olympus.
Ham.
[Advancing.]
What is he whose grief
Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow
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!
[Grappling with him.]
Ham.
Thou pray'st not well.
I pr'ythee, take thy fingers from my throat;
For, though I am not splenetive and rash,
Yet have I in me something dangerous,
Which let thy wiseness 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
Until my eyelids will no longer wag.
Queen.