Somehow, they have come upon the tragedians again.
Guildenstern is philosophical, as usual: all roads lead to Rome, as they say - our roads may all lead to players of Roman tragedy - they certainly aren't leading anywhere else at the moment. Cf. Dante - we have found ourselves in a dark forest and the straight way is lost.
Rosencrantz is pleased to see someone he remembers: I say, fancy meeting you again! What are you playing at now?
Something new - a comedy. (What are the odds of that, wonders Ros.)
Death? Guil asks skeptically.
Of course. It's what we do.
But that's not how comedy works...
Ros watches the players rehearse. Silhouetted by the torches, Alfred and one of the others kiss like an optical illusion. That's interesting - he has never seen Alfred in trousers before. (Guil has never seen him out of a dress.)
--If you hung there long enough everything would start to spin around you, wouldn't it? There are wheels within wheels...I should still mind being dead, though.
...and you can't do death.
The Player leans over Ros. Seven guilders to take part. I think you'll like this one. --Both of you.
Guil puts an arm around Ros and pulls him closer. Ros squeezes closer still.
We were doomed from the start, anyway.
