ROSENCRANTZ The single and peculiar life is bound

With all the strength and armour of the mind

To keep itself from noyance; but much more

That spirit upon whose weal depends and rests

The lives of many. The cess of majesty

Dies not alone, but like a gulf doth draw

What’s near it with it; or it is a massy wheel

Fixed on the summit of the highest mount

To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things

Are mortised and adjoined, which when it falls

Each small annexment, petty consequence,

Attends the boisterous ruin. Never alone

Did the king sigh but with a general groan.             (3.3.11-23)

I doubt I’ve ever heard this in performance, but it’s an extraordinary, crawling little speech from Rosencrantz, stuffed with commonplaces and phrase-making—and at the same time it echoes the speeches about the burdens of kingship in Shakespeare’s own histories, but with far less immediacy and wry self-awareness; it sounds almost like self-parody by the writer of Henry V. It must be SO hard being a King, Your Majesty, opines Rosencrantz. I mean, the single and peculiar life is bound with all the strength and armour of the mind to keep itself from noyance; ordinary people, private individuals, like us, have to keep themselves out of harm’s way, and sometimes that can be difficult, yes indeed. But much more that spirit upon whose weal depends and rests the lives of many. If other people are depending on you, relying on your well-being for the security of their daily lives: well, that’s a heavy responsibility! And the cess of majesty—the death of the monarch, not to put too fine a point on it (is this going too far, Rosencrantz? Yes, absolutely, both for Claudius and for the aging Queen Elizabeth) dies not alone, but like a gulf doth draw what’s near it with it. It’s a horrific image, the suggestion that when the monarch dies a great chasm, a whirlpool opens up to swallow others with it, no one left untouched. Or—no, stop, Rosencrantz, it’s not even a case of quitting while you’re ahead—it is a massy wheel fixed on the summit of the highest mount, yeah, an ENORMOUS WHEEL, on the top of a MOUNTAIN, to whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things are mortised and adjoined, no, listen to me, there are lots of things, little things, like, ATTACHED to the spokes (yes, I know that means it wouldn’t be able to roll properly, it’s like a METAPHOR), which when it falls each small annexment, petty consequence, attends the boisterous ruin. The little things, they fall with the big thing, basically; no matter how small and insignificant they are, they still get crushed. Collateral damage, unavoidable. (Rosencrantz speaks truth without knowing it, even though this speech is one way of making sense of the frequent characterisation of this hapless pair as serious stoners.) And he screeches to a halt with a desperate, grovelling little commonplace: never alone did the king sigh but with a general groan. Everyone suffers when the king’s unhappy! We feel your pain, sire!