At Long Last, Sonnetry

Now, Hamlet, what's the matter? Art thou robb'd
Of reason by those buttock-throttling pants,
At whose discomforture thou'st sweated, sobb'd,
And nigh on rendered up a chicken dance?
Mistake me not, my lord: thy secret parts—
Not e'en indiff'rent secret in those jeans—
Sing fair of Fortune's favor, cleaving hearts
In twain, delighting all those aged queens
The hey-day of whose blood thou prizest low;
And yet, what is this quintessence of Dunst?
Think'st thou thy comely face and form o'ercrow
Thy journeyman-like muggings when thou pun'st?
For all your acting lessons, voice and tactile,
Thou art not Herod; thou'rt a Herodactyl.

(Note: This is re the Hamlet currently mounted at the Folger and the lead actor there, not about Mel Gibson—who, for all his faults and craziness, is still the best film Hamlet I've seen. Extra points for spotting, without the aid of text search, all the direct references to the text embedded herein.)

Alt version

Now, Hamlet, what's the matter? Art thou robb'd
Of reason by those buttock-throttling pants,
At whose discomforture thou'st sweated, sobb'd,
And shewn thine uncle's court the chicken dance?
Mistake me not, my lord: thy secret parts—
Not e'en indiff'rent secret in those jeans—
Sing fair of Fortune's favor, cleaving hearts
In twain, delighting all those agèd queens
The hey-day of whose blood thou prizest low;
And yet, what is this quintessence of dunce?
Dost trust thy beautified physique o'ercrow
Thy journeyman's gesticulative punts,
Hands thrown in air as if thy word were tactile?
Thou'rt not so much Herod as Herodactyl.


I hate to lose 'quintessence of Dunst' but it's rather an in-joke for folks who know how I feel about Ms. Kirsten D~. Also, this way more specifically cites what I found objectionable about the guy's performance.