CHARLIE ROSE AS HAMLET.

How all interviews do inform against me, 

And spur my dull revenge!
What is an interviewer, 

If his chief good and market of his time be but to ask and listen?
A (Brian) Lamb, no more. 

Sure, he that made us with such delusions of discourse, 

Looking before and after, gave us not 

That false sincerity and god-like reason 

To interrupt with furrowed brow.
Now, whether it be 
ignorant oblivion, or some irrelevant digression 

Of thinking too precisely on my influence to secure a table at Nobu, 

A thought which, only in my addled brain hath but one part ego

And ever three parts obsequious weasel I do not know 

Why yet I live to say 'This thing's to do;' 

Seeth? I have Armani ties and airtime and a show with mine name upon it 
To do't. Examples gross as Hollywood starlets exhort me: 

Witness this army of such celebrity and fame

Led by a delicate and tender Charlie, 

Whose spirit with divine ambition puff'd 

Makes mouths at the televised event, 

Exposing what is vacant and unsure 

To all that Larry King, Letterman and Leno dare, 

Even for a dilettante. Rightly to be great 

Is not to stir without great self involvement, 

But greatly to find quarrel in a strawman

When ratings for PBS at the stake.
How stand I then, 

That have a film director coddled, a diplomat stroked, 

Excitements of my unreason and my blood, 

And let all sleep like C-SPAN? while, to my shame,
I see 
The imminent death of twenty million viewers, 

That, for a fantasy and trick of fame, 

Go to their graves like couch potatoes , fight for a plot 

Whereon the Nielson numbers cannot try the cause, 

Which is not tomb enough for Television’s has beens

To hide the shame? O, from this time forth, 

My thoughts be trite or be nothing worth.