ROSENCRANTZ To what end, my lord?
HAMLET That you must teach me. But let me conjure you, by the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a better proposer can charge you withal, be even and direct with me whether you were sent for or no.
ROSENCRANTZ What say you?
HAMLET Nay then, I have an eye of you. If you love me, hold not off.
GUILDENSTERN My lord, we were sent for. (2.2.248-258)
Rosencrantz is sticking to interrogation-resistance 101, even though he knows the game is probably up, answering a question with a question: to what end, my lord, why should we have been sent for, in the way you’re suggesting? That you must teach me. You tell me, mate; Hamlet bats that away, too easy. But—and now he can be really savage, as well as genuinely regretful and hurt, these were his childhood friends, they’ve drifted apart, but still: let me conjure you, by the rights of our fellowship, all those drunken/stoned oaths we swore as we got up to no good and did stupid stuff, by the consonancy of our youth—we did a lot of growing up together!—by the obligation of our ever-preserved love (that’s the really bitter, ironic part: you’ve thought of me about as often as I’ve thought of you in these intervening years, none of us tried to keep this friendship going) and by what more dear a better proposer can charge you withal—by anything at all, anything you care to mention or be moved by: be even and direct with me whether you were sent for or no. Just tell the truth, give me that at least. Are you here under orders?
What say you? says Rosencrantz. He could be doggedly continuing his answer-a-question-with-a-question strategy, although in performance it can get a laugh if he mutters at Guildenstern under his breath, help, or else out loud, help me out here, don’t leave all this to me. Hamlet can carry on doing this for ages: nay then, I have an eye of you. (It can be an aside: gotcha.) If you love me, hold not off. You say that you’re my friends: don’t be backward in coming forward! Spit it out! Guildenstern cracks, he was always going to; Rosencrantz might be annoyed, or relieved. My lord, we were sent for. Hands up, busted.