The truth is, a brilliant burlesque does harm to nobody; and a bad burlesque does but recoil upon the head of its author and his exponents. Poole's "Hamlet Travestie" is marked by the best intentions, but, as a whole, it makes dreary reading. The opening colloquy between Hamlet, King Claudius, and Queen Gertrude will give, to those who have not already perused the piece, a notion of the quality of the dialogue:-- _King_ (_to_ Hamlet). Cheer up, my son and cousin, never mind-- _Ham._ A little more than kin, and less than kind. _King._ Why hang the clouds still on you? Come, have done. _Ham._ You're out, my lord; I'm too much in the sun.-- _Queen._ Come, Hamlet, leave off crying; 'tis in vain, Since crying will not bring him back again. Besides, 'tis common: all that live must die-- So blow your nose, my dear, and do not cry. _Ham._ Ay, madam, it is common. _Queen._ If it be, Why seems there such a mighty fuss with thee? _Ham._ Talk not to me of seems--when husbands die, 'Twere well if some folks seem'd the same as I. But _I_ have that within, you can't take from me-- As for black clothes--that's all my eye and Tommy. _King._ Cheer up, my hearty; though you've lost your dad, Consider that your case is not so bad: Your father lost a father; and 'tis certain, Death o'er your great-grandfather drew the curtain. You've mourn'd enough; 'tis time your grief to smother; Don't cry: you shall be king some time or other. _Queen._ Go not to Wittenburg, my love, I pray you. _Ham._ Mamma, I shall in all my best obey you. _King._ Well said, my lad! Cheer up, no more foul weather: We'll meet anon, and all get drunk together. It was part of Poole's method to put the soliloquies into the form of songs, and so we find the lines beginning "O that this too too solid flesh would melt!" appearing in the following form:-- A ducat I'd give if a sure way I knew How to thaw and resolve my stout flesh into dew! How happy were I if no sin was self-slaughter! For I'd then throw myself and my cares in the water. Derry down, down, down, derry down. How weary, how profitless,--stale, and how flat, Seem to me all life's uses, its joys, and all that: This world is a garden unweeded; and clearly Not worth living for--things rank and gross hold it merely. Derry down, etc. Two months have scarce pass'd since dad's death, and my mother, Like a brute as she is, has just married his brother.-- To wed such a bore!--but 'tis all too late now: We can't make a silk purse of the ear of a sow. Derry down, etc. The time-honoured "To be or not to be" is sung in this version to the tune of "Here we go up, up, up":--