Is not parchment made of sheepskins?
Ay, my lord, and of calf-skins too.
They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance
in that. I will speak to this fellow. Whose
grave’s this, sirrah?
O, a pit of clay for to be made
For such a guest is meet.
I think it be thine, indeed; for thou liest in’t.
You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore it is not
yours: for my part, I do not lie in’t, and yet it is mine.
‘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.
‘Tis a quick lie, sir; ’twill away gain, from me to
What man dost thou dig it for?
For no man, sir.
What woman, then?
For none, neither.
Who is to be buried in’t?
One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she’s dead.
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 a note of
it; the age is grown so picked that the toe of the
peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, he
gaffs his kibe. How long hast thou been a
Of all the days i’ the year, I came to’t that day
that our last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.