MESSENGER              Save yourself, my lord.

The ocean overpeering of his list

Eats not the flats with more impiteous haste

Than young Laertes in a riotous head

O’erbears your officers. The rabble call him lord

And, as the world were now but to begin,

Antiquity forgot, custom not known,

The ratifiers and props of every word,

They cry, ‘Choose we: Laertes shall be king!’ –

Caps, hands and tongue, applaud it to the clouds –

’Laertes shall be king! Laertes king!’           (4.5.98-108)

The messenger is uncompromisingly direct: save yourself, my lord. Get out, run! Now! But then he embarks on a chillingly vivid and elaborate conceit: the ocean overpeering of his list—the sea, towering over the shore (perhaps one imagines shoals or sandbanks; the image is of tremendous, unstoppable force, great waves)—well, that sea eats not the flats with more impiteous haste, that ocean now personified as a beast, a monster, swallowing up the beach, great bites, greedy, a rushing onslaught—than young Laertes in a riotous head o’erbears your officers. It’s Laertes, at the head of the mob, and they’re sweeping all before them, not so much overcoming the guards as engulfing them. He’s unstoppable! A storm surge is upon you, wreaking havoc on your land! All is speed, confusion, disorientation. Claudius has lost control—he can’t hold back the waves! Moreover, the rabble call him—Laertes—lord and, as the world were now but to begin, antiquity forgot, custom not known, the ratifiers and props of every word—it’s as if everything has already been swept away, all notions of order and hierarchy and propriety, it’s as if the world is starting over, all its distinctions of rank forgotten; it’s the end of history, the dawn of a new age! The rule of law, language itself, all the things that depend on precedent, agreed social norms, long-cherished principles, an unwritten constitution—those things aren’t working anymore! The messenger may be catastrophising a bit—and he was clearly trained up by Polonius, because he soundslike Polonius, in his elaboration and long-windedness, but he’s coming to the main point, the most dangerous one (perhaps he’s been delaying, baffling with metaphor): they cry ‘Choose we, Laertes shall be king!’ That’s what the mob are shouting, this is a coup, not just a riot! (And Denmark is an elective monarchy, but it’s still a coup; choose doesn’t imply any kind of democratic process in this instance.) They’re out of control, caps, hands and tongue, applaud it to the clouds, their hats are off, waved or being thrown in the air (that it’s caps makes it clear that these are the common people, not wearing the high-crowned hats of the upper classes); they’re waving, shaking their fists, applauding, whatever, they’re shouting at the top of their lungs: ‘Laertes shall be king! Laertes king!’