POLONIUS EXPOSTULATES



                        Come, come, Ophelia, give me up the truth.

                        Was it so long ere I forbade you boil that young egg?

Cast off the knighted clouds that weasel your brow. 

By the by, doth Hamlet paddle fingers in thy swansdown trim?

Importunate ingrate!  Still slandering my daughter, eh?

Repel you not his trifles, his letters, his oeillades?

Remember, green damson, the prince’s will is not his own.

I charge you, therefore, guard your chaste treasure

As the portcullis the tongue or day night.

Look to mine honour, not tenders of his affection,

Lest you tender me a tedious old fishmonger.

To be passion’s slave beggars the knavest basery.

No infidel harries worse than bad counsellery, save one –

That damned goblin that errs abroad in the cellarage.

So Hamlet durst pluck my pullet as wouldst the King’s?

Yea, very like.  O he doth fool me to my bentmost top.

Come now, Ophelia, time’s rider tames the strongest grief.

Better die with honour than lie with false thief.

                                                                                Michael Small
December, 2001

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