Hamlet

Oh God—who is, by the way, the best comic of them all. What can you do but be happy? Look how cheerful my mother is, only two hours after my father died.

No, my lord, it’s been four months.

As long as that? Well, in that case these mourning clothes can go to hell. I’ll get myself a fur-trimmed suit. Good heavens, he died two months ago and hasn’t been forgotten yet? In that case, there’s reason to hope a man’s memory may outlive him by six months. But he’s got to build churches for that to happen, my lady, or else he’ll have to put up with being forgotten, like the hobby-horse in the popular song that goes, “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, the hobby-horse is forgotten.”

Trumpets play. The pantomime show begins. A king and queen enter and embrace lovingly. She kneels before him and resists his passion. He lifts her up and lays his head on her neck. He lies down on a bank of flowers. When she sees him sleeping, she leaves. Another man comes in, takes the crown from the king, pours poison in the sleeping man’s ear, and leaves. The queen returns and finds the king dead. She becomes hysterical. The killer comes back with three others and calms the queen. The body is carried away. The killer woos the queen with gifts. She is cold toward him for a while but then relents and accepts his advances.

What does this mean, my lord?

This means we’re having some mischievous fun.