Ros. Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace:[836]
but there is, sir, an eyrie of children, little eyases, that cry[836][837]
out on the top of question and are most tyranically clapped[836][838]
for't: these are now the fashion, and so berattle the common[836][839]
stages—so they call them—that many wearing rapiers[836][840] 330
are afraid of goose-quills, and dare scarce come thither.[836]
Ham. What, are they children? who maintains 'em?[836][841]
how are they escoted? Will they pursue the quality no[836]
longer than they can sing? will they not say afterwards, if[836]
they should grow themselves to common players,—as it is[836][842] 335
most like, if their means are no better,—their writers do them[836][843]
wrong, to make them exclaim against their own succession?[836][844]
Ros. Faith, there has been much to do on both sides,[836]
and the nation holds it no sin to tarre them to controversy:[836]
there was for a while no money bid for argument unless[836] 340
the poet and the player went to cuffs in the question.[836]
Ham. Is't possible?[836]
Guil. O, there has been much throwing about of brains.[836]
Ham. Do the boys carry it away?[836]
Ros. Ay, that they do, my lord; Hercules and his load too.[836][845] 345
Ham. It is not very strange; for my uncle is king of[846]
Denmark, and those that would make mows at him while[847]
my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats[848]
a-piece, for his picture in little. 'Sblood, there is something[849]
in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it out.[850] 350
[Flourish of trumpets within.
Guil. There are the players.[851]