Why to a publick count I might not go, Laer. And so have I a noble father lost; For her perfections: But my revenge will come. King. Break not your sleeps for that; you must not think, That we are made of stuff so flat and dull, And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine, Enter a Messenger. ད Mess. Letters, my Lord, from Hamlet: This to your Majesty; this to the Queen. King. From Hamlet! Who brought them? Mess. Sailors, my Lord, they say: I saw them not; They were given me by Claudio, he receiv'd them Of him that brought them. King. Laertes you shall hear them: — Leave us. [Exit Messenger. [Reads.] High and mighty, you shall know, I am set raked on your kingdom. Tomorrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes: when I shall, first asking your pardon thereunto, recount the occasion of my sudden and more strange return. Hamlet. What should this mean? Are all the rest come back? Or is it some abuse, and no such thing? King. 'Tis Hamlet's character. Naked,- Laer. I am lost in it, my Lord. But let him come; It warms the very sickness in my heart, That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, King. If it be so, Laertes, - As how should it be so ?how otherwise? Laer: Ay, my Lord; So you will not o'er-rule me to a peace. King. To thine own peace. If he be now return'd, As checking at his voyage, and that he means Under the which he shall not choose but fall: Laer. My Lord, I will be rul'd; The rather, if you could devise it so, 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, Laer. What part is that, my Lord? since, Here was a gentleman of Normandy, · I have seen myself, and serv'd against, the French, And gem of all the nation. he is the brooch, indeed, King. He made confession of you: That he cried out, 'twould be a sight indeed, nation, He swore, had neither motion, guard, nor eye, That he could nothing do, but wish and beg 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. Nor that I think, you did not love your father; But that I know, love is begun by time; Dies in his own too-much: That we would do, We should do when we would; for this would changes, And bath abatements and delays as many, As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents; Hamlet comes back; What would you undertake, Laer. To cut his throat i'the church. King. No place, indeed, should murder sanc tuarize; Revenge should have no bounds. But, good Laertes, 112 Ꮋ Ꭺ Ꮇ Ꮮ Ꭼ Ꭲ, . The Frenchman gave you; bring you, in fine, together, And wager o'er your heads: he, being remiss, Laer. I will do't: And, for the purpose, I'll anoint my sword. So mortal, that, but dip a knife in it, Under the moon, can save the thing from death, King. Let's farther think of this; Weigh, what convenience, both of time and means, May fit us to our shape: if this should fail, And that our drift look through our bad perform ance, 'Twere better not assay'd; therefore, this project Should have a back, or second, that might hold, If this should blast in proof. Soft; let me see: We'll make a solemn wager on your cunnings, 1 ha't: When in your motion you are hot and dry, (As make your bouts more violent to that end,) And that he calls for drink, I'll have preferr❜ð him A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping, Enter |