CLAUDIUS                  But how hath she

Received his love?

POLONIUS                  What do you think of me?

CLAUDIUS      As of a man faithful and honourable.

POLONIUS      I would fain prove so. But what might you think

When I had seen this hot love on the wing –

As I perceived it (I must tell you that)

Before my daughter told me – what might you,

Or my dear majesty your Queen here, think

If I had played the desk or table-book,

Or given my heart a winking mute and dumb,

Or looked upon this love with idle sight,

What might you think?         (2.2.125-136)

But how hath she received his love? asks Claudius, not unreasonably. How did Ophelia respond, is this, like, a consensual relationship that’s been going on for some time, under our noses? or is Hamlet, well, stalking her? something in between? What do you think of me? asks Polonius; it looks slightly mysterious on the page but probably sounds affronted: Polonius’s first concern is that his loyalty and good judgement must be above reproach. Claudius might be baffled by this apparently oblique response: as of a man faithful and honourable, I trust you, rely on you absolutely, of course. I would fain prove so, says Polonius: give me the chance to prove it, yet again. Already Polonius is rewriting the story to make himself the (obsequious) hero: but what might you think, what would you have thought of me, when I had seen this hot love on the wing, swiftly growing in passion and intensity, full of youthful impetuousness (imagined perhaps as a game bird flushed from a thicket)—as I perceived it (I must tell you that) before my daughter told me; I could see it happening, nothing gets past me, as you well know (he is making this up, totally, he had no idea until Ophelia told him)—what might you, or my dear majesty your (not just the) Queen here, think—what would you have thought of me—if I had played the desk or table-book, if I’d just made a note and then kept it to myself (a desk was usually a box with a sloping writing surface, in which writing materials and papers could be kept, rather than a piece of furniture), or given my heart a winking mute and dumb—or, even worse, turned a blind eye, kept my mouth shut. Or, worse still, looked upon this love with idle sight, indulged it, said and done nothing, given my tacit approval even? What might you think? What would you have thought of me??

One could imagine a production where, by this point, Ophelia (if present) is standing frozen, a tear slowly sliding down her cheek. Or, more assertively, looking out in a completely different direction, full of tension, her back to the rest of the people on stage. Or looking at her father with new-found contempt, at his self-seeking, his crawling to the new king (whom she perhaps knows that Hamlet hates).