Pol. Do you know me, my Lord?
Ham. Excellent, excellent well: y'are a Fishmonger
Pol. Not I my Lord
Ham. Then I would you were so honest a man
Pol. Honest, my Lord?
Ham. I sir, to be honest as this world goes, is to bee
one man pick'd out of two thousand
Pol. That's very true, my Lord
Ham. For if the Sun breed Magots in a dead dogge,
being a good kissing Carrion-
Haue you a daughter?
Pol. I haue my Lord
Ham. Let her not walke i'thSunne: Conception is a blessing, but not as your daughter may conceiue. Friend looke too't
Pol. How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter: yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a Fishmonger: he is farre gone, farre gone: and truly in my youth, I suffred much extreamity for loue: very neere this. Ile speake to him againe. What do you read my Lord? Ham. Words, words, words
Pol. What is the matter, my Lord?
Ham. Betweene who?
Pol. I meane the matter you meane, my Lord
Ham. Slanders Sir: for the Satyricall slaue saies here, that old men haue gray Beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes purging thicke Amber, or Plum-Tree Gumme: and that they haue a plentifull locke of Wit, together with weake Hammes. All which Sir, though I most powerfully, and potently beleeue; yet I holde it not Honestie to haue it thus set downe: For you your selfe Sir, should be old as I am, if like a Crab you could go backward