Is’t possible?
Guil.
O, there has been much throwing about of brains.
Ham.
Do the boys carry it away?
Ros.
Ay, that they do, my lord; Hercules and his load too.
Ham. It is not very strange; for my uncle is king of Denmark, and those that would make mouths at him while my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats a-piece for his picture in little. ‘Sblood, there is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it out.
[Flourish of trumpets within.]
Guil.
There are the players.
Ham. Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come: the appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony: let me comply with you in this garb; lest my extent to the players, which I tell you must show fairly outward, should more appear like entertainment than yours. You are welcome: but my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived.
Guil.
In what, my dear lord?
Ham. I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.
[Enter Polonius.]
Pol.
Well be with you, gentlemen!
Ham. Hark you, Guildenstern;—and you too;—at each ear a hearer: that great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling clouts.
Ros. Happily he’s the second time come to them; for they say an old man is twice a child.
Ham. I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players; mark it.—You say right, sir: o’ Monday morning; ‘twas so indeed.
Pol.
My lord, I have news to tell you.
Ham.
My lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscius was an actor in
Rome,—
Pol.
The actors are come hither, my lord.
Ham.
Buzz, buzz!
Pol.
Upon my honour,—
Ham.
Then came each actor on his ass,—
Pol. The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem unlimited: Seneca cannot be too heavy nor Plautus too light. For the law of writ and the liberty, these are the only men.
Ham.
O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou!
Pol.
What treasure had he, my lord?
Ham.
Why—
‘One fair daughter, and no more,
The which he loved passing well.’
Pol.
[Aside.] Still on my daughter.
Ham.
Am I not i’ the right, old Jephthah?
Pol. If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter that I love passing well.
Ham.
Nay, that follows not.
Pol.
What follows, then, my lord?
Ham. Why— ‘As by lot, God wot,’ and then, you know, ‘It came to pass, as most like it was—’ The first row of the pious chanson will show you more; for look where my abridgment comes.
[Enter four or five Players.]
You are welcome, masters; welcome, all:—I am glad to see thee well.—welcome, good friends.—O, my old friend! Thy face is valanc’d since I saw thee last; comest thou to beard me in Denmark?—What, my young lady and mistress! By’r lady, your ladyship is nearer to heaven than when I saw you last, by the altitude of a chopine. Pray God, your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold, be not cracked within the ring.—Masters, you are all welcome. We’ll e’en to’t like French falconers, fly at anything we see: we’ll have a speech straight: come, give us a taste of your quality: come, a passionate speech.
I Play.
What speech, my lord?
Ham. I heard thee speak me a speech once,—but it was never acted; or if it was, not above once; for the play, I remember, pleased not the million, ‘twas caviare to the general; but it was,—as I received it, and others, whose judgments in such matters cried in the top of mine,—an excellent play, well digested in the scenes, set down with as much modesty as cunning. I remember, one said there were no sallets in the lines to make the matter savoury, nor no matter in the phrase that might indite the author of affectation; but called it an honest method, as wholesome as sweet, and by very much more handsome than fine. One speech in it I chiefly loved: ‘twas AEneas’ tale to Dido, and thereabout of it especially where he speaks of Priam’s slaughter: if it live in your memory, begin at this line;—let me see, let me see:— The rugged Pyrrhus, like th’ Hyrcanian beast,—
it is not so:— it begins with Pyrrhus:—
‘The rugged Pyrrhus,—he whose sable arms,
Black as his purpose, did the night resemble
When he lay couched in the ominous horse,—
Hath now this dread and black complexion smear’d
With heraldry more dismal; head to foot
Now is he total gules; horridly trick’d
With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons,
Bak’d and impasted with the parching streets,
That lend a tyrannous and a damned light
To their vile murders: roasted in wrath and fire,
And thus o’ersized with coagulate gore,
With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus
Old grandsire Priam seeks.’
So, proceed you.
Pol. ‘Fore God, my lord, well spoken, with good accent and good discretion.
I Play.
Anon he finds him,
Striking too short at Greeks: his antique sword,
Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls,
Repugnant to command: unequal match’d,
Pyrrhus at Priam drives; in rage strikes wide;
But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword
The unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium,
Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top
Stoops to his base; and with a hideous crash
Takes prisoner Pyrrhus’ ear: for lo! his sword,
Which was declining on the milky head
Of reverend Priam, seem’d i’ the air to stick:
So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood;
And, like a neutral to his will and matter,
Did nothing.
But as we often see, against some storm,
A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still,
The bold winds speechless, and the orb below
As hush as death, anon the dreadful thunder
Doth rend the region; so, after Pyrrhus’ pause,