HAMLET         O God, your only jig-maker! What should a man do but be merry, for look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within’s two hours!

OPHELIA        Nay, ’tis twice two months, my lord.

HAMLET         So long? Nay, then, let the devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit of sables! O heavens – die two months ago and not forgotten yet? Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year! But, by’r Lady, ’a must build churches then, or else shall ’a suffer not thinking on – with the hobby-horse whose epitaph is ‘For O! For O! The hobby-horse is forgot!’   (3.2.118-128)

I’m not just merry, says Hamlet, I am HILARIOUS, laugh a minute, me, might as well be a professional comedian: O God, your only jig-maker! What should a man do but be merry—why wouldn’t you have a laugh?—for look you how cheerfully my mother looks—she’s having a great time! (Gertrude is probably not having a great time, although it’s a possible choice, still, that buyer’s remorse hasn’t kicked in) and my father died within’s two hours! My dad’s barely cold and look, she’s happy as anything! (She is not.)

That’s the trap that Hamlet’s setting up: nay, ’tis twice two months, my lord. Ophelia can’t let that go, out of sheer truthfulness, a bit of solidarity with Gertrude, even—but that’s what Hamlet’s waiting for. Four whole months? So long? Well, nay, then, let the devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit of sables! No more mourning for me, I’ll cast off my inky cloak indeed—to the devil with it!—and I’ll have a lovely new fur coat! (Suit of sables is odd; it could mean a set of luxurious furs, but sable is dark in colour, and is the heraldic term for black.) O heavens—die two months ago and not forgotten yet? Amazing! Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year! Maybe it could even be as long as six months before we forget the dead? (Hamlet may well be spitting this mainly at Gertrude by now, rather than Ophelia.) But, by’r Lady, ’a must build churches then, or else shall ’a suffer not thinking on. You’ve got to DO something to remember the dead, something active, concrete, not just ignore them and hope they’ll go away. (Bad things can happen if you do that.) Remembering is active! (At the back of his mind, perhaps—if one can say such a thing—is Hamlet’s promise to the Ghost, that he will remember him, and avenge him. What’s he done so far to keep that promise? Well, more than his mother, he’s perhaps consoling himself. And look, he’s putting on a play! It’s a start…) If you don’t DO something to remember the dead, then they fade away into meaninglessness, like old customs and catch-phrases and jokes—morris dancing!–with the hobby-horse whose epitaph is ‘For O! For O! The hobby-horse is forgot!’