ROSENCRANTZ.
Even those you were wont to take such delight in—the tragedians of the city.
HAMLET.
How chances it they travel? Their residence, both in reputation and profit, was better both ways.
ROSENCRANTZ.
I think their inhibition comes by the means of the late innovation.
HAMLET.
Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? Are they so followed?
ROSENCRANTZ.
No, indeed, they are not.
HAMLET.
How comes it? Do they grow rusty?
ROSENCRANTZ.
Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace; but there is, sir, an aerie of children, little eyases, that cry out on the top of question, and are most tyrannically clapped for’t. These are now the fashion, and so berattle the common stages—so they call them—that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills and dare scarce come thither.
HAMLET.
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?
ROSENCRANTZ.
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 a while, no money bid for argument unless the poet and the player went to cuffs in the question.
HAMLET.
Is’t possible?