Act IV

But soft, what noise? who calls on Hamlet? O, here they come.

What have you done, my lord, with the dead body?

Compounded it with dust, whereto ’tis kin.

Tell us where ’tis, that we may take it thence

And bear it to the chapel.

Do not believe it.

Believe what?

That I can keep your counsel and not mine own. Besides, to be demanded of a sponge! what replication should be made by the son of a king?

Take you me for a sponge, my lord?

Ay, sir, that soaks up the king’s countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the king best service in the end: he keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again.

I understand you not, my lord.