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 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 reverend 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 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, Aroused vengeance sets him new a-work, And never did the Cyclops’ hammers fall On Mars’s 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 heaven, As low as to the fiends. 

 POLONIUS. This is too long. 

 HAMLET. It shall to the barber’s, with your beard.—Prythee say on. He’s for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps. Say on; come to Hecuba. 

 FIRST PLAYER. But who, O who, had seen the mobled queen,— 

 HAMLET. ‘The mobled queen’? 

 POLONIUS. That’s good! ‘Mobled queen’ is good. 

 FIRST PLAYER. Run barefoot up and down, threat’ning 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’erteemed 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 heaven, And passion in the gods. 

 POLONIUS. Look, where he has not turn’d his colour, and has tears in’s eyes. Pray you, no more. 

 HAMLET. ’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 

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