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It warms the very sickness in my heart

       That I shall live and tell him to his teeth,

       ‘Thus didest thou.’

       King.

       If it be so, Laertes,—

       As how should it be so? how otherwise?—

       Will you be rul’d by me?

       Laer.

       Ay, my lord;

       So you will not o’errule me to a peace.

       King.

       To thine own peace. If he be now return’d—

       As checking at his voyage, and that he means

       No more to undertake it,—I will work him

       To exploit, now ripe in my device,

       Under the which he shall not choose but fall:

       And for his death no wind shall breathe;

       But even his mother shall uncharge the practice

       And call it accident.

       Laer.

       My lord, I will be rul’d;

       The rather if you could devise it so

       That I might be the organ.

       King.

       It falls right.

       You have been talk’d of since your travel much,

       And that in Hamlet’s hearing, for a quality

       Wherein they say you shine: your sum of parts

       Did not together pluck such envy from him

       As did that one; and that, in my regard,

       Of the unworthiest siege.

       Laer.

       What part is that, my lord?

       King.

       A very riband in the cap of youth,

       Yet needful too; for youth no less becomes

       The light and careless livery that it wears

       Than settled age his sables and his weeds,

       Importing health and graveness.—Two months since,

       Here was a gentleman of Normandy,—

       I’ve seen myself, and serv’d against, the French,

       And they can well on horseback: but this gallant

       Had witchcraft in’t: he grew unto his seat;

       And to such wondrous doing brought his horse,

       As had he been incorps’d and demi-natur’d

       With the brave beast: so far he topp’d my thought

       That I, in forgery of shapes and tricks,

       Come short of what he did.

       Laer.

       A Norman was’t?

       King.

       A Norman.

       Laer.

       Upon my life, Lamond.

       King.

       The very same.

       Laer.

       I know him well: he is the brooch indeed

       And gem of all the nation.

       King.

       He made confession of you;

       And gave you such a masterly report

       For art and exercise in your defence,

       And for your rapier most especially,

       That he cried out, ‘twould be a sight indeed

       If one could match you: the scrimers of their nation

       He swore, had neither motion, guard, nor eye,

       If you oppos’d them. Sir, this report of his

       Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy

       That he could nothing do but wish and beg

       Your sudden coming o’er, to play with him.

       Now, out of this,—

       Laer.

       What out of this, my lord?

       King.

       Laertes, was your father dear to you?

       Or are you like the painting of a sorrow,

       A face without a heart?

       Laer.

       Why ask you this?

       King.

       Not that I think you did not love your father;

       But that I know love is begun by time,

       And that I see, in passages of proof,

       Time qualifies the spark and fire of it.

       There lives within the very flame of love

       A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it;

       And nothing is at a like goodness still;

       For goodness, growing to a plurisy,

       Dies in his own too much: that we would do,

       We should do when we would; for this ‘would’ changes,

       And hath abatements and delays as many

       As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents;

       And then this ‘should’ is like a spendthrift sigh,

       That hurts by easing. But to the quick o’ the ulcer:—

       Hamlet comes back: what would you undertake

       To show yourself your father’s son in deed

       More than in words?

       Laer.

       To cut his throat i’ the church.

       King.

       No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize;

       Revenge should have no bounds. But, good Laertes,

       Will you do this, keep close within your chamber.

       Hamlet return’d shall know you are come home:

       We’ll put on those shall praise your excellence

       And set a double varnish on the fame

       The Frenchman gave you; bring you in fine together

       And wager on your heads: he, being remiss,

       Most generous, and free from all contriving,

       Will not peruse the foils; so that with ease,

       Or with a little shuffling, you may choose

       A sword unbated, and, in a pass of practice,

       Requite him for your father.

       Laer.

       I will do’t:

       And for that purpose I’ll anoint my sword.

       I bought an unction of a mountebank,

       So mortal that, but dip a knife in it,

       Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare,

       Collected from all simples that have virtue

       Under the moon, can save the thing from death

       This is but scratch’d withal: I’ll touch my point

       With this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly,

       It may be death.

       King.

       Let’s further think of this;

       Weigh what convenience both of time and means

       May fit us to our shape: if this should fail,

       And

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