HORATIO Not a jot more, my lord.
HAMLET Is not parchment made of sheepskins?
HORATIO Ay, my lord, and of calves’ skins too.
HAMLET They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow. Whose grave’s this, sirrah?
GRAVEDIGGER Mine, sir,
[Sings.]
O, a pit of clay for to be made –
HAMLET I think it be thine, indeed, for thou liest in’t.
GRAVEDIGGER You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore ’tis not yours. For my part I do not lie in’t, yet it is mine.
HAMLET 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.
GRAVEDIGGER ’Tis a quick lie, sir, ’twill away again from me to you. (5.1.106-121)
No, the putative lawyer’s skull doesn’t possess or control anything anymore, Horatio agrees, not a jot more, my lord. Hamlet changes tack, slightly: is not parchment made of sheepskins? (Still used for some legal documents, rather than paper.) Ay, my lord, and of calves’ skins too. (True.) It’s sort of setting up Hamlet’s next cynical joke—they are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that; turkeys voting for Christmas, the people who think that they can rely on such things, calves and sheep being usually associated with foolishness and naivety. Who would depend on the law and its records?
But then Hamlet’s off again: I will speak to this fellow. Whose grave’s this, sirrah? Mine, sir, is the inevitable answer; Hamlet walked into that one. The gravedigger’s unconcerned, goes back to his song: O, a pit of clay for to be made… But Hamlet’s interested: I think it be thine, indeed, for thou liest in’t; he’s got the measure of the gravedigger’s logic, it’s your grave, yes, because you’re in it, not telling the truth. Gotcha! The gravedigger’s no fool, though: you lie out on’t, sir, and therefore ’tis not yours. You’re not telling the truth either, and you’re not in it, so it’s not yours (and therefore it must be mine). For my part I do not lie in’t, yet it is mine. (I am not lying in it—being buried in it—and I am not lying in it, I am telling the truth—but it’s still mine, because I’m digging it.) Hamlet’s not giving up, and also he’s rather enjoying this neat little dance of logic: thou do’st lie in’t—tell an untruth, while standing in it—to be in’t and say it is thine. That’s not true, is it? Because ’tis for the dead, not for the quick. Graves aren’t for the living, and therefore thou liest. Gotcha again. Gravedigger unconcerned, he can keep this up for hours: ’tis a quick lie, sir—quick as in speedy, and alive, not dead—I can accuse you of lying just as soon as you do the same to me, ’twill away again from me to you. (There might be a quibble on quick lime, a powerful corrosive, sometimes used in graves, especially in mass graves and in time of plague, to speed up the process of decomposition.)
