O, give me leave.

Leave, like a military man gets a respite from the service? Like a professor on sabbatical or a mother after the birth of her child?
Or leave like, Please leave. Like, you presence here is not wanted. Like, I’d like to be without you for a bit. Or leave like permission? Like those who say “Give me leave to speak” or “Give me leave to pass.”
I suppose in those cases, it is, in essence a “Leave me alone. Leave space for me.”
It could be all things here.

I’ll board him presently.

The S.S. Hamlet, docked on the South side. You have to wait for the crew to lower the gangway; the S.S. Hamlet does not take kindly to being boarded by rope or surprise. It is a hell of a ship. Spic n Span. Yar. It is run with precision and rigor. It does have a tendency to digress. It takes tours of unexpected places, full of poetry and wonder. It navigates choppy waters gracefully and the log is full of each toss, each turn of the ocean.
You’ll want your own cabin. The quarters are close and it’s hard to get space to yourself.
It’s a regal ship, but not a pretentious one. Ordered but not militaristic. Journey on the S.S. Hamlet and you will have an unforgettable trip. If you just stay on the edges, you’ll come out alright.

Away, I do beseech you both, away.

I’m not a parent but I imagine that some of the most difficult moments might be when you realize you can help your child most by making yourself scarce. Is that the crux of the thing? Bringing someone up to the point where they can only be helped by others? You give this person all the help you can and then it tips over to a place where your help is no longer useful and might, in fact, be detrimental. It’s like over-winding a gyroscope. It simply won’t spin if you wind it too far. You have to wrap the string around the base carefully, make sure it won’t get caught on itself but you can’t keep winding and eventually, you have to pull your string away and watch it spin by itself, getting farther and farther away from you.

If he love her not,
And be not from his reason fallen thereon,
Let me be no assistant for a state,
But keep a farm and carters.

It is a shame that Polonius does not keep this oath. If, once this theory had been disproved by the nunnery scene, Polonius had stripped off his chain of office and handed it to Claudius, he could have headed straight to buy a farm and carters and would, after the tragedy, be the one still standing. He could have resigned on the spot, as he said he would if he were wrong, and settled himself in with some crops and some livestock.
Polonius, in overalls, tossing hay with a pitchfork. Polonius, with a pail, pouring slop for the pigs. Polonius, his arm around his daughter in her gingham farmer’s daughter dress, surveys his land. Polonius, his head covered in a straw hat to protect him from the sun, speaks to the carters/farmhands and then pats his horse. Polonius, his cheeks rosy from work, hears the news from the capital of all the royal tragedy and shakes his head, glad to be well shod of it.

Mark the encounter.

That booking conference may have been the longest awkward cocktail party I have ever been to but it was the sort that you have to go home and make notes on your excel spreadsheet about. It’s not even like you can have a bagel without having cocktail conversation. And you exchange cards but mostly you know this person will never return your calls. But you check their names off your list, you made sure you figured out who everyone was, you tried to check off as many names as possible, you took notes on them. Remember who you’re supposed to check for next time.

Be you and I behind an arras then.

There are fewer places to hide in a contemporary house, not quite so many arrases hanging about. You might find a floor length curtain in an old fashioned estate home or some folks who decorate that way. My grandparents had curtains that went to the floor, you could hide behind those – except they sold that house and those curtains along with it. If you wanted to hide at their house now, you’d have to get into a closet – and those are much more intense sound mufflers.
I am somewhat nostalgic for curtains and arrases but I wonder if having fewer places to hide has made us a more forthright people. Perhaps with more lives out in the open and, along with a great reduction in long sharp objects, we end up with fewer accidental arras deaths and a modicum less of violence.

At such a time I’ll loose my daughter to him.

Ophelia’s on a leash, one of those little halter numbers that gets a real grip on your torso. Polonius tugs on it sometimes if Ophelia strays too far – but mostly she’s one of those who will hold the leash herself until such time as someone asks for it. But here, Polonius gives the impression that Ophelia has been pulling at the restraints a bit, ready to dash forward and get the run of the park for a bit. It’s like she’s been waiting to surge ahead and attach herself to Hamlet’s leg.

You know sometimes he walks four hours together
Here in the lobby.

Most notes on this line will tell you that this means that Hamlet tends to walk in that lobby at 4 o’clock. It is curious phrasing that makes it SOUND like he’s pacing back and forth there for four hours but it’s not likely that that’s what Polonius is SAYING.
But four hours. . . is there another instance of the time of day being phrased this way? Or is four hours a sort of regular walk time. Like elevenses for the mid-morning snack, or tea, the meal around five. Maybe a stroll at 4 is a cultural tradition? The way the passaggiata is an Italian one and the way my grandparents ate and walked, and walked and then ate, at extremely regular intervals.
It is the “Together’ though that confuses me – 4 hours together really makes it sound like one hour, then another hour, followed by two more hours, making four hours together of walking there in the lobby. This would be a LOT of walking for the Prince of Denmark but maybe it’s his way to get some exercise.
No, no, it’s probably just a weird way to say 4 o’clock.

If circumstances lead me, I will find

Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed

Within the centre.

Lines like this make me glad to be doing this project. Taking the time to really see a line makes lines like this pop out and say “QUOTE ME!”
It’s not a line that gets quoted. It’s not terribly memorable, the language isn’t particularly remarkable, I guess – but today this line has waves of remarkableness around it. It’s a line with a mission. A line for the lead in to a TV detective show or a Journalistic mantra. Today, the dedicated pursuit of truth seems the most noble profession, the most potent of avocations. The irony, of course, is that the man who is claiming to be the doggéd seeker of truth is one of the most proficient liars in the play.
No matter, though. Today I’d like to find where truth is hid and I can use this line to help me follow it to the center.

Take this from this, if this be otherwise.

Most Poloniui I know have interpreted this “This from this” as the head from the body. I wonder if this is a note in one of the texts, or many of them, or if they all just sort of naturally conclude that taking one’s head from one’s shoulders is the most logical thing to be taken when making a sweeping oath like this. It could be anything, there’s no indication what either of those first two this-es are. Take this heart from this body. Take this chain of office from this neck of the official. Take this eye from this socket. Take this hat from this head and then throw it on the ground and stomp on it. There are dozens of clown “This from This” opportunities. This tongue from this mouth, this kneecap from this leg, this spleen from this gut, this tooth from this jaw, this eyelash from this lid, this booger from this nose.
But of course, Polonius is not really a clown so This from This must be a rather dignified mime and a head from shoulders is the most efficient mime illustration.