Besides, to be
demanded of a sponge, what replication should be made by the son
of a king?
Rosencrantz. Take you me for a sponge, my lord?
Hamlet. Ay, sir; that soaks up the King's countenance, his rewards,
his authorities. But such officers do the King best service in
the end. He keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw;
first mouth'd, to be last swallowed. When he needs what you have
glean'd, it is but squeezing you and, sponge, you shall be dry
again.
Rosencrantz. I understand you not, my lord.
Hamlet. I am glad of it. A knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear.