Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead Page #4

Ah... I will tell you why.

I know he finds it striking

too short at grief...

His antique sword the bearer

to his arms lies where it falls,

repugnant to command.

I have of late,

but wherefore I know not,

lost all my mirth, foregone

all custom of exercises,

and indeed, it goes so heavily

with my dispositions...

that this goodly frame, the earth,

seems to me a sterile promontory:

this most excellent canopy,

the air, look you, this brave

o'er hanging firmament...

this majestical roof

fretted with golden fire,

Why,

it appeareth nothing to me

but a foul and pestilent

congregation of vapours.

What a piece of

work is a man,

How noble in reason,

how infinite in faculties,

in form and moving

how express and admirable,

in action how like an angel,

in apprehension how like a god:

the beauty of the world,

the paragon of animals,

and yet to me,

what is this quint essence of dust?

Man delights not me...

nor woman neither though by your

smiling you seem to say so.

My lord, there was

no such stuff in my thoughts.

Why did ye laugh then,

when I said "Man delights not me"?

To think, my lord,

if you delight not in man...

what Lenten entertainment

the players shall receive from you.

We coted them on the way:

and hither are they coming

to offer you service.

Eh, he that plays

the king shall be welcome.

Gentleman, you are welcome to

Elsinore. Your hands, come then.

You are welcome.

But my uncle-father

and aunt-mother are deceived.

In what, my dear lord?

I am but mad north-northwest.

when the wind is southerly

I know a hawk from a handsaw.

Well be with you, gentleman.

Hark you... Guildenstern...

And eh you too, at each ear a hearer.

that great baby you see there is not

yet out of his swaddling clouts.

I will prophesy he comes

to tell me of the players.

My lord, I have news to tell you.

Eh my lord,

I have news to tell you.

When Roscius was

an actor in Rome.

The actors are come hither,

my lord.

Buzz, buzz.

Upon my honour--

Then came each actor on his ass.

The best actors in the world,

either for tragedy, comedy...

history, pastoral, pastoral-comical,

historical-pastoral,

tragical-historical.

I thought you...

No.

I say... look at this!

I think we can say

we made some progress.

You think so?

I think we can say that.

I think we can say

he made us look ridiculous.

We played it close

to the chest of course.

Question and answer!

He was scoring off us

all down the line.

He caught us on the wrong foot once

or twice, perhaps, but I think

we gained some ground.

He murdered us.

He might have had the edge.

Twenty-seven-three, and you think

he might have had the edge?

He murdered us.

What about our evasions?

Oh, our evasions were lovely.

You were sent for? He says.

"My lord, we were sent for."

I didn't know where to put myself.

He had six rhetoricals-

It was question and answer alright.

And two repetitions.

Twenty-seven questions he got out

and answered three. I was waiting

for you to delve.

When is he going to start delving,

I asked myself.

We got his symptoms, didn't we?

Half of what he said meant

something else, and the other

half didn't mean anything at all.

Thwarted ambition a sense

of grievance, that's my diagnosis.

Six rhetorical and two repetition,

leaving nineteen of which

we answered fifteen.

And what did we get in return?

He's depressed!

Denmark's a prison and he'd

rather live in a nutshell.

Some shadow play about the nature of

ambition and finally one direct

question which might've led somewhere

and led in fact to his illuminating

claim to tell a hawk for a handbag.

Handsaw.

Handsaw.

When the wind is southerly.

And the weather's clear.

And when it isn't he can't.

He's at the mercy

of the elements.

Is that southerly?

We came from roughly south.

Which way is that?

In the morning the sun would be

easterly. I think we can assume that.

That it's morning?

If it is, and the sun is over there,

for instance,

that would be northerly.

On the other hand,

if it is not morning

and the sun is over there.

that would still be northerly.

To put it another way,

if we came from down there,

and it's morning, the sun

would be up there...

but if is actually, over there,

and it's still morning,

we must have come from back

there and if that is southerly,

and the sun is really over there...

then it's the afternoon.

However, if none of these

is the case.

Why don't you go and have a look?

Pragmatism!

Is that all you have to offer?

I merely suggest

the position of the sun...

if it is out, would give

you a rough idea of the time.

Alternatively, the clock,

if it is going,

would give you a rough idea

of the position of the sun.

I forget which you are

trying to establish.

I am trying to establish

the direction of the wind.

There isn't any wind.

Draught, yes.

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 llium,

seeming to feel his blow,

with flaming top. Stoops to his base,

and with a hideous crash.

Takes prisoner Pyrrhus' ear.

For lo, his sword...

Of reverend Priam,

seem'd I the air to stick...

Mind the bottom of...

the step.

Sorry.

Aroused vengeance sets

him new a-word,

and never did the Cyclops'

hammers fall on Mars his armours,

forg'd for proof eterne,

with less remorse than

Pyrrhus bleeding sword. 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 Heaven, as low as

to the fiends.

This is too long.

It shall to the barber's,

with your beard.

Prithee say on:
he's for a speech,

or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps.

Say on, come to Hecuba.

But who, O who, had

seen the mobled Queen...

The mobled Queen?

That's good, mobled Queen is good.

This is interesting.

'Tis well.

I'll have thee speak

out the rest of this soon.

Good, my lord, will you see

the players well bestowed?

Do you hear?

Let them be well used, 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 live.

My lord, I will use them

according to their desert.

God's bodkin, 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.

Come sirs.

Follow him, friends:

we'll hear a play tomorrow.

Can you play the

"Murder of Gonzago"?

Ay, my lord.

We'll have it tomorrow night.

You could for a need study a speech

of some 12 or 16 lines which I would

set down and insert in it.

Follow that lord and

look you mock him not.

My good friends,

I'll leave you till night.

You are welcome in Elsinore.

Good, my lord.

So you've caught up.

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