No indeed are they not.
Ham. How comes it? Do they grow rusty?
Ros. Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace; but there
is,
sir, an eyrie of children, little eyases, that cry out on the
top
of question and are most tyrannically clapp'd fort. These are
now
the fashion, and so berattle the common stages (so they call
them) that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goosequills and
dare scarce come thither.
Ham. What, are they children? Who maintains 'em? How are they
escoted? Will they pursue the quality no longer than they can
sing? Will they not say afterwards, if they should grow
themselves to common players (as it is most like, if their
means
are no better), their writers do them wrong to make them
exclaim
against their own succession.
Ros. Faith, there has been much to do on both sides; and the
nation
holds it no sin to tarre them to controversy. There was, for
a
while, no money bid for argument unless the poet and the
player
went to cuffs in the question.
Ham. Is't possible?
Guil. O, there has been much throwing about of brains.
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