Hamlet

That’s good. “The muffled queen” is good.

Running back and forth, spraying the flames with her tears, a cloth on that head where a crown had recently sat and a blanket instead of a robe wrapped around her body, which has withered from childbearing: anyone seeing her in such a state, no matter how spiteful he was, would have cursed Lady Luck for bringing her down like that. If the gods had seen her while she watched Pyrrhus chopping her husband into bits, the terrible cry she uttered would have made all the eyes in heaven burn with hot tears—unless the gods don’t care at all about human affairs.

Look how flushed the actor is, with tears in his eyes. All right, that’s enough, please.

(to FIRST PLAYER) Very fine. I’ll have you perform the rest of it soon. (to POLONIUS)—My lord, will you make sure the actors are made comfortable? Make sure you’re good to them, since what they say about us later will go down in history. It’d be better to have a bad epitaph on our graves than to have their ill will while we’re alive.

My lord, I will give them all they deserve.

Good heavens, man, give them more than that! If you pay everyone what they deserve, would anyone ever escape a whipping? Treat them with honor and dignity.

The less they deserve, the more your generosity is worth. Lead them inside.