SCENE VII.
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 swathling-clouts.
-- 173 --
Ros.
Haply, 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; for on
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.
Buzze, buzze.—
Pol.
Upon mine honour—
Ham.
Then came each Actor on his ass—
&wlquo;Pol.
&wlquo;The best Actors in the world, either for
tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical,
historical, pastoral, scene undivideable, or Poem
unlimited: Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus
too light. For the law of wit, and the Liberty,
these are the only men.&wrquo;
Ham.
Oh, Jephtha, judge of Israel, what a treasure
hadst Thou!
Pol.
What a treasure had he, my lord?
Ham.
Why, one fair daughter, and no more,
The which he loved passing well.
Pol.
Still on my daughter.
Ham.
Am I not i'th' right, old Jephtha?
Pol.
If you call me Jephtha, 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; 4 note
the first
-- 174 --
row of the rubrick will shew you more. For, look,
where my abridgements come.
Enter four or five Players.
Y'are welcome, masters, welcome all. I am glad to see
thee well; welcome, good friends. Oh! old friend!
thy face is valanc'd, since I saw thee last: com'st thou
to beard me in Denmark? What! my young lady and
mistress? b'erlady, your ladyship is nearer heaven than
when I saw you last, by the altitude of 5 notea chioppine.
Pray God, your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold,
be not crack'd within the ring.—Masters, you are all
welcome; we'll e'en to't like friendly faulconers, fly
at any thing we see; we'll have a speech straight.
Come, give us a taste of your quality; come, a passionate
speech.
1 Play.
What speech, my good 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, pleas'd not the million, 'twas Caviar
to the general; but it was (as I received it, and others,
whose judgment in such matters 6 notecried in the top of
mine) an excellent Play; well digested in the scenes,
7 noteset down with as much modesty as cunning. I remember,
one said, there was no salt in the lines, to make
the matter savoury; nor no matter in the phrase, 8 notethat
might indite the author of affection; but call'd it, 9 notean
honest method. One speech in it I chiefly lov'd; 'twas
Æneas's 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—
-- 175 --
The rugged Pyrrhus, like th' Hyrcanian beast,—It is
not so;—it begins with Pyrrhus.
The rugged Pyrrhus, he,5Q0003 whose sable arms,
Black as his purpose, did the Night resemble
When he lay couched in the ominous horse;
Hath now his dread and black complexion smear'd
With heraldry more dismal; head to foot,
Now is he total gules; horridly trickt
With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons,
Bak'd and impasted with the parching fires,
That lend a tyrannous and damned light
To murthers vile. Roasted in wrath and fire,
And thus o'er-sized with coagulate gore,
With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus
Old grandsire Priam seeks.
Pol.
'Fore God, my lord, well spoken, with good
accent, and good discretion.
1 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 whif and wind of his fell sword
Th'unnerved father falls. &wlquo;Then senseless Ilium
&wlquo;Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top
&wlquo;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 rev'rend Priam, seem'd i'th' air to stick;
So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood;
And, like a neutral to his will and matter,
Did nothing.
&wlquo;But as we often see, against some storm,
&wlquo;A silence in the heav'ns, the rack stand still,
&wlquo;The bold winds speechless, and the orb below
&wlquo;As hush as death: anon the dreadful thunder
Doth rend the region: So after Pyrrhus' pause,
-- 176 --
A roused vengeance sets him new a-work:
And never did the Cyclops' hammers fall
On Mars his armour, forg'd for proof eterne,
With less remorse than Pyrrhus' bleeding sword
Now falls on Priam.—
Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune! all you Gods,
In general synod take away her power:
Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel,
And bowl the round nave down the hill of heav'n,
As low as to the fiends.
Pol.
This is too long.
Ham.
It shall to th' barber's with your beard. Pr'ythee,
say on; he's for a jigg, or a tale of bawdry, or
he sleeps. Say on, come to Hecuba.
1 Play.
But who, oh! who, had seen 1 notethe mobled Queen,—
Ham.
The mobled Queen?
Pol.
That's good; mobled Queen, is good.
1 Play.
Run bare-foot up and down, threatning the flames
With bisson rheum; a clout upon that head,
Where late the Diadem stood; and for a robe
About her lank and all-o'er-teemed loyns,
A blanket in th' alarm of fear caught up:
Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep'd,
'Gainst fortune's state would treason have pronounc'd:
But if the Gods themselves did see her then,
When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport
In mincing with his sword her husband's limbs;
The instant burst of clamour that she made,
(Unless things mortal move them not at all)
Would have made milch the burning eyes of heav'n,
And passion in the Gods.
-- 177 --
Pol.
Look, whe're he has not turn'd his colour,
and has tears in's eyes. Pr'ythee, no more.
Ham.
'Tis well, I'll have thee speak out the rest of
this soon. Good my lord, will you see the Players
well bestow'd? Do ye hear, let them be well us'd;
for they are the abstract, and brief chronicles of the
time. After your death, you were better have a bad
Epitaph, than their ill report while you liv'd.
Pol.
My lord, I will use them according to their
desert.
Ham.
God's bodikins, man, much better. Use
every man after his desert, and who shall 'scape whipping?
use them after your own honour and dignity.
The less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty.
Take them in.
Pol.
Come, Sirs.
[Exit Polonius.
Ham.
Follow him, Friends: we'll hear a Play to
morrow. Dost thou hear me, old friend, can you play
the murther of Gonzago?
Play.
Ay, my lord.
Ham.
We'll ha't to morrow night. You could,
for a need, study a speech of some dozen or sixteen
lines, which I would set down, and insert in't? could
ye not?
Play.
Ay, my lord.
Ham.
Very well. Follow that lord, and, look, you
mock him not. My good friends, I'll leave you 'till
night, you are welcome to Elsinoor.
Ros.
Good my lord.
[Exeunt.
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
