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.
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.
-- 197 --
Ham.
4 noteBuzze, buzze.—
Pol.
Upon mine honour—
Ham.
5 noteThen came each Actor on his ass—
Pol.
The best Actors in the world, either for tragedy,
comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical,
historical-pastoral, scene undividable, or Poem unlimited:
Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too
light. 6 noteFor the law of writ, and the Liberty, these
are the only men.
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: 7 note
the first
-- 198 --
row of the rubrick will shew you more. For, look,
where 8 notemy abridgments 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 a chioppine. Pray God, your voice, like a
piece of uncurrent gold, 9 notebe not crack'd within the
ring.—Masters, you are all welcome; we'll e'en to't
1 notelike 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
2 noteCaviare6Q0261 to the general; but it was as I receiv'd it,
and others whose judgment in such matters 3 note
cried in
the top of mine, an excellent Play; well digested in
the scenes, 4 noteset down with as much modesty as cunning.
-- 199 --
I remember, one said, there was no salt in the
lines, to make the matter savoury; nor no matter in
the phrase, 5 notethat might indite the author of affection;
6 note
but call'd it, an honest method, as wholesome as
sweet, and by very much more handsome than fine. 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—The rugged
Pyrrhus, like th' Hyrcanian beast,—It is not so;—
it begins with Pyrrhus.
The rugged Pyrrhus, he,6Q0262 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 murders 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,
-- 200 --
Pyrrhus at Priam drives, in rage strikes wide;
But with the whif and wind of his fell sword,
Th' 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 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.
But as we often see, against some storm,
A silence in the heav'ns, 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,
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 7 note
the mobled
Queen,—
-- 201 --
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 loins,
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.
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.
Odd'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 tomorrow.
Dost thou hear me, old friend, can you
play the murder of Gonzaga?
Play.
Ay, my Lord.
-- 202 --
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, [to Ros. and
Guild.] I'll leave you 'till night. You are welcome to
Elsinoor.
Ros.
Good my Lord.
[Exeunt.
Samuel Johnson [1765], The plays of William Shakespeare, in eight volumes, with the corrections and illustrations of Various Commentators; To which are added notes by Sam. Johnson (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [and] C. Corbet [etc.], London) [word count] [S11001].
