Ham.  What, are they children? who maintains ’em?  How are they escoted?  Will they pursue the quality no longer than they can sing? will they not say afterwards, if they should grow themselves to common players,—­as it is most like, if their means are no better,—­their writers do them wrong to make them exclaim against their own succession?

Ros.  Faith, there has been much to do on both sides; and the nation holds it no sin to tarre them to controversy:  there was, for awhile, no money bid for argument unless the poet and the player went to cuffs in the question.

Ham. 
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!