HAMLET                     ay, do not think I flatter,

For what advancement may I hope from thee

That no revenue hast but thy good spirits

To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered?

No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp

And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee

Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear?

Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice

And could of men distinguish her election

Sh’ath sealed thee for herself.          (3.2.52-61)

Hamlet’s little disquisition on the nature of true friendship is an easy cut in performance, but it’s a striking moment here, Hamlet thinking about what really matters, and also reflecting the shared identity of Hamlet and Horatio as students, as humanists, deeply invested in classical and more recent ideals of equal friendship between men. Ay, do not think I flatter, Hamlet protests, I’m not just saying this, for what advancement may I hope from thee that no revenue hast by thy good spirits to feed and clothe thee? If I say nice things about you, it’s not as if you can offer me any kind of reward or promotion; you’re not exactly wealthy or well-connected, all you’ve got to rely on is your own wits and abilities. (I’m the one holding all the cards here, is also implicit.) After all, why should the poor be flattered? What’s the point in that? It’s cynical, realistic—and would chime with the experience of many anxious young men in an audience, hustling for careers, contacts, patronage. Hamlet is paving the way for the malcontents of Jacobean tragedy. For a moment he adopts a more satirical voice: no, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp and crook the pregnant hinges of the knee where thrift may follow fawning. There’s scope, even, for a cruel imitation of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, flattering and saying sweet things, bowing and scraping, grovelling and wheedling in the hope of currying favour, getting on the payroll, or simply getting noticed. Dost thou hear? Do you understand what I’m really saying, how honest I’m being with you? Please believe me: since my dear soul was mistress of her choice and could of men distinguish her election sh’ath sealed thee for herself. You’re my friend, I chose you freely, not out of any self-interested calculation or claim of rank or prior connection or expediency. You’re my best friend, Horatio. Love you, man.

It’s strikingly intimate to a modern ear, but not unusual in the early modern discourse of intimate friendship between men. The main contrast is the immediate one, with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, whose friendship has been shown to be shallow, craven, exploitative—and simply outgrown. But is there any scope to wonder, has Hamlet ever said this to Ophelia, too? Is it this level of trust and intimacy that he’s betrayed and violated there?