Will you be rul'd by me?

Laer. Ay; fo you'll not o'er-rule me to a peace.
King. To thine own peace. If he be now return'd,
6 As liking not his voyage, and that he means
No more to undertake it, I will work him
To an exploit now ripe in my device,

Under the which he fhall not chufe but fall!
And for his death no wind of Blame fhall breathe
But ev❜n his mother shall uncharge the practice,
And call it accident.

Laer. I will be rul'd,

The rather, if you could devife it fo2
That I might be the organ.

King. It falls right.

You have been talkt of fince your travel much,
And that in Hamlet's Hearing, for a quality
Wherein, they fay, you shine; your fum of parts
Did not together pluck fuch envy from him,
As did that one, and that in my regard
Of the unworthieft fiege.

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 fettled age his fables, and his weeds,

8

• Importing health and gravenefs.-Two months fince, Here was a gentleman of Normandy.-

I've seen myself, and ferv'd against the French,

And they can well on horfe-back but this Gallant
Had witchcraft in't, he grew unto his feat;
And to fuch wondrous doing brought his horse,
As he had been incorps'd and demy-natur'd
With the brave beaft. So far he topp'd my thought,
That I in forgery of fhapes and tricks
Come short of what he did.

Laer. A Norman, was't?
King A Norman.

Laer. Upon my life, Eamond.
King. The fame.

Laer. I know him well. He is the brooch, indeed, And gem of all the nation.

King. He made confeffion of you,

And gave you fuch a masterly report,
For art and exercife' in your defence;
And for your rapier most especial,

That he cry'd out, 'twould be a Sight indeed,
If one could match you. The Scrimers of their na

tion,

2.

He swore, had neither motion, guard, nor eye,
If you oppos'd 'em-Sir, this Report of his
Did Hamlet fo envenom with his envy,

That he could do nothing, but wish and beg
Your fudden 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 forrow,

A face without a heart?

Laer. Why afk you this?

King. Not that I think, you did not love your fa

But that I know, love is begun by time,
And that I fee 3 in paffages of proof,
Time qualifies the spark and fire of it:
There lives within the very flame of love
A kind of wick, or fnuff, that will abate it,
And nothing is at a like goodness ftill;
+ For goodness, growing to a pleurify,

Dies in his own too much. What 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;
5 And then this fhould is like a fpend-thrift figh
That hurts by eafing. But to th' quick o' th' ulcer-
Hamlet comes back; what would you undertake
To fhew yourself your father's Son indeed
More than in words?

That hurts by eafing; This nonfepfe fhould be read thus,

now, when it may be done with
eafe and fafety, time may throw
fo difficulties in your way,
many
that, in order to furmount them,
you must put your whole fortune
into hazard.
WARB.

This conjecture is fo ingenious, that it can hardly be oppofed, but with the fame reluctance as the bow, is drawn against a hero, whofe virtues the archer holds in veneration. Here may be applied what Voltaire writes to the Empress :

Le genereux François-
Te combat t' admire.

And then this fhould is like a Yet this emendation, however Spendthrift's SIGN That burts by eafing ;i. e. tho' a fpendthrift's entering into bonds or mortgages gives him a prefent relief from his ftraits, yet it ends in much greater diftreffes. The application is, If you neglect a fair opportunity

fpecious, is mistaken. The original reading is, not a Spendthrift's figh, but a spendthrift figh; a figh that makes an unneceffary wafte of the vital flame. It is a notion very prevalent, that fighs impair the strength, and wear out the animal powers.

Laer,

Leer. To cut his throat i' th' church.

King. No place, indeed, fhould murder fanctuarifes Revenge fhould have no bounds; but, good Laertes, Will you do this? keep close within your chamber'; Hamlet, return'd, fhall know you are come home: We'll put on thofe fhall praise your excellence, And fet a double varnish on the fame

The Frenchman gave you; bring you in fine together,

And wager on your heads. He being remiss,
Moft generous and free from all contriving,
Will not perufe the foils; fo that with ease,
Or with a little fhuffling, you may chuse
7 A fword unbated, and in a pafs of practice
Requite him for your father.

Laer. I will do't;

8

And for the purpose I'll anoint my fword.
I bought an unction of a Mountebank,
So mortal, that but dip a knife in it,
Where it draws blood, no cataplafm fo rare,
Collected from all fimples that have virtue
Under the Moon, can fave the thing from death,
That is but fcratch'd withal; I'll touch my point
With this contagion, that if I gall him flightly,
It may be death.

King. Let's farther think of this;

Weigh, what convenience both of time and means 9 May fit us to our fhape. If this fhould fail,

And that our drift look through our bad performance,

'Twere better not affay'd; therefore this project
Should have a back, or fecond, that might hold,
If this should blaft in proof. Soft- let me fee
We'll make a folemn wager on your cunnings.
I 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 prepar'd

hat him

A Chalice for the nonce; wheron but fipping,
If he by chance efcape your venom'd tuck,

Our purpose may

hold there.

SCENE

Enter Queen.

How now, fweet Queen?

X.

Queen. One woe doth tread upon another's heel, So fast they follow. Your fifter's drown'd, Laertes. Laer. Drown'd! oh where?,

Queen. There is a willow grows aflant a Brook, That fhews his hoar leaves in the glaffy stream: There with fantaftick garlands did the come, Of crow-flowers, nettles, daifies, and long purples, (That liberal thepherds give a groffer name; But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them;)

εξί

There on the pendant boughs, her coronet weeds.
Clambring to hang, an envious fliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies and herfelf

ก

-blaß in prof. This, I. or execution, fometimes breaks believe, is a metaphor taken out with an ineffectual blast. from a mine, which, in the proof

Fell