Conceit in weakest bodies ftrongest works.
Speak to her, Hamlet.

Ham. How is it with you, Lady?

Queen. Alas, how is't with you!

That thus you bend your eye on vacancy,
And with th' incorporal air do hold discourse?
Forth at your eyes your fpirits wildly peep,
And, as the fleeping foldiers in th' alarm,
Your bedded hairs, like life in excrements, (53)

(53) Your bedded hairs, like life in excrements,

Start up and stand on end] I took notice, in my Shakefpeare Restored, that this exprefffon as much wanted an explanation, as any the most antiquated word in our Poet wants a glofs. Mr Hughes, in his impreffion of this play, has left it out; either because he could make nothing of it, or thought it alluded to an image too naufeous. The Poet's meaning is founded on a phyfical determination, that the hair and nails are excrementitious parts of the body (as indeed they are) without life or fenfation. Macrobus, in his Saturnalia, (lib. vii. cap. 9) not only speaks of thofe parts of the human body which have on fenfation, but likewife affigns the reafons why they can have none. Offa, dentes, cum unguibus et capillis, nimia ficcitate ita denfata funt, ut penetrabi la non fint effectui anima qui fenfum minirat. Therefore the Poet means to fay, fear and furprise had fuch an effect upon Hamlet, that his hairs, as if there were life in thofe excrementitious parts, started up and stood on end. He has expreffed the fame thought more plainly in Macbeth;

and my fell of, hair

Would at a difmal treaife rouze, and stir,
As life were in't.

That our Poet was acquainted with this notion in phyfics, of the hair being without life, we need no ftronger warrant, than that he frequently mentions it as an excrement.

Why is time fuch a niggard of hair, being, as it is, so plen tiful an excrement? Comedy of Errors, How many cowards, whofe hearts are all as falfe As ftairs of fand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules, and frowning Mars; Who, inward fearched, have livers white as milk? And these affume but valour's excrement

To render them redoubted.

Merchant of Venice,

Start up, and ftand on end. O gentle fon,
Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper
Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look?
Ham. On him! on him!---look you, how pale he
glares!

His form and caufe conjoined, preaching to ftones,
Would make them capable. Do not look on me,
Left with this piteous action you convert

My ftern effects; then what I have to do,

Will want true colour; tears, perchance, for blood. Queen. To whom do you speak this?

Ham. Do you fee nothing there?

[Pointing to the Ghost. Queen. Nothing at all; yet all, that is, I fee. Ham. Nor did you nothing hear? Queen. No, nothing but ourfelves.

Ham. Why, look you there! look, how it fteals.

My father in his habit as he lived!

[away! Look, where he goes even now, out at the portal.

[Exit Ghoft. Queen. This is the very coinage of your brain : This bodilefs creation ecstasy

Is very cunning in.

Ham. What ecstasy ?

My pulfe, as yours, doh temperately keep time,
And makes as healthful mufic. 'Tis not madness
That I have uttered; bring me to the test,
And I the matter will re-word; which madness
Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace,
Lay not that flattering unction to your feul,
That not your trefpaís, but my madnefs, fpeaks;

For I must tell thee, it will pleafe his grace (by the world) fometime to lean upon my poor fhoulder, and with bis royal finger thus dally with my excrement, with my muflacios. Love's Labour Loft.

&c. &c.

It will but skin and film the ulcerous place; (54).
Whilst rank corruption, mining all within,
Infects unfeen. Confefs yourself to Heaven;
Repent what's past, avoid what is to come;
And do not spread the compost on the weeds
To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue;
For, in the fatness of these purly times,,
Virtue itfelf of vice muft pardon beg,

Yea, courb, and wooe, for leave to do it good. Queen. Oh, Hamlet! thou hast cleft my heart in twain.

Ham. O, throw away the worfer part of it,
And live the purer with the other half.
Good night; but go not to mine uncle's bed:
Affume a virtue, if you have it not.

That monfter custom, who all sense doth eat (55)

(54) It will but skin and film the ulcerous place, Whilst rank corruption, running all withir,

Infects unfeen.] So, our Poet elsewhere fpeaking of the force of power;

Because authority, though it err like others,
Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself,
That is the, vice o' th' top.

Meaf. for Meaf.

But why, in the paffage before us, has Mr Pope, given us a reading that is warranted by none of the copies, and de graded one that has the countenance of all of them?

Whilst rank corruption, mining all within,

Infects unfeen..

The Poet defcribes corruption as having a corrofive qua-lity, eating its fecret way, and undermining the parts that are skinned over, and feem found to exteriour view He, in another place, ufes the fimpie verb for the compound.

He lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a bro ther, and, as much as in hinr tyes, mines my gentility with my education.. As You Like it.. (55) That monfter cuftom, who all fer fe doth eat, Of babit's devil, is angel yet in this;

That to the use of actions fair and grade

He likewife gives a frock, or livery,

Of habits evil, is angel yet in this;
That to the ufe of actions fair and good
He likewife gives a frock, or livery,
That aptly is put on. Refrain to-night;
And that thall lend a kind of eafinefs

To the next abftinence; the next, more easy;
For ufe can almost change the ftamp of Nature,.
And mafter even the Devil, or throw him out
With wondrous potency. Once more, good night!
And when you are defirous to be blest,
I'll blefling beg of you.---For this fame Lord,

[Pointing to Polonius..
I do repent: but Heaven hath pleased it fo,
To punish me with this, and this with me,
That I must be their fcourge and minister.
I will beftow him, and will anfwer well.
The death I gave him; fo, again, good night!
I must be cruel, only to be kind;

Thus bad begins, and worfe remains behind..
Queen. What shall I do?

Ham. Not this, by no means, that I bid you do.
Let the fond King tempt you again to bed;
Finch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse;
And let him, for a pair of reechy kiffes,.

Or paddling in your neck with his damned fingers,

That aptly is put on.] This paffage is left out in the two elder Folios; it is certainly corrupt, and the players did the difcreet part to ftifle what they did not understand. Habit's. evil certainly arofe from fome conceited tamperer with the text, who thought it was neecffary, in contrast to an The emendation of the text. I owe to the fagacity of Dr Thirlby::

That monster custom, who all fenfe doth cat

Of habits evil, is angel, &c.

i. e. Custom, which by inuring us to ill habits, makes us lofe the apprehenfion of their being really ill, as easily will reconcile us to the practice of good actions.

Make you to ravel all this matter out,
That I effentially am not in madness,

But mad in craft. 'Twere good you let him know.
For who that's but a Queen, fair, fober, wife,
Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gibbe,
Such dear concernings hide? who would do fo ?
No, in defpight of tenfe and secrefy,
Unpeg the basket on the house's top,
Let the birds fly, and, like the famous ape,
To try conclufions, in the basket creep,
And break your own neck down.

Queen. Be thou affured, if words be made of breath,
And breath of life, I have no life to breathe
What thou haft faid to me.

Ham. I muft to England, you know that?

Queen. Alack, I had forgot; 'tis fo concluded on. Ham. There's letters fealed, and my two schoolfellows,

(Whom I will truft as I will adders fanged)
They bear the mandate; they muft fweep my way,
And marshal me to knavery: let it work.-
For 'tis the sport, to have the engineer

Hoist with his own petard: and't shall go hard,
But I will delve one yard below their mines,
And blow them at the moon. O, 'tis most sweet,
When in one line two crafts directly meet!
This man shall set me packing ;-

I'll lug the guts into the neighbour room;
Mother, good-night.-Indeed, this Counsellor
Is now most still, moft fecret, and most grave,
Who was in life foolish prating knave.
Come, Sir, to draw toward an end with you.
Good-night, mother.

[Exit Hamlet, tugging in Polonius.