Or ‘tis a massy wheel Fixed on the summit of the highest mount, To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things Are mortised and adjoined;

There’s the wheel. This one’s mossy.
It is not a weal. It is a wheel.
Surely that will be heard and clear! (Surely not.)
This is a bizarre metaphor.
A giant wheel? At the top of a mountain?
That’s got a whole bunch of little things attached to it? Huh?
It’s not like – say, a cart?
Or – some actual wheeled thing?
No – I picture something like a bicycle wheel with lots of stuff stuck in between the spokes, playing cards, trinkets, tassels and decorative plastic flowers – and this weird wheel is hanging out at the top of a mountain –
Maybe little strings hang down from it and stuff moves when the wheel turns, like puppets attached to their controls.
What the hell is Rosencrantz going on about?

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