Conceit in weakeft 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 fand on end] I took notice, in my Shakefpeare Reftored, that this expreffion 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 becaufe 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 bair 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 af figns 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 fenfm miniftrat. 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 excre mentitious parts, ftarted up and stood on end. He has expreffed the fame thought more plainly in Macbeth ; -and my fell of hair

Would at a difimal 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, fo 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 thefe 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 diltemper
Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you lock?
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 steals

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, doth temperately keep time,
And makes as healthful mufic. 'Tis not madneís
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 foul,
That not your trefpafs, but my madness, speaks :

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

&c. &c.

It will but fkin and film the ulcerous place; (54)
Whilft rank corruption, mining all within,
Infects unfeen. Confefs yourself to Heaven;
Repent what's paft, avoid what is to come;
And do not spread the compoft on the weeds
To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue
For, in the fatnefs of these purfy times,
Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg,

Yea, courb, and wooe, for leave to do it good. Queen. Oh, Hamlet! thou haft 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 monster cuítom, who all fenfe doth eat (55)

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

Infis unfeen.] So, our Poet elfewhere fpeaking of the force of power;"

Because authority, though it err like others,
Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself,

That skins the vice o' th top.

Menf. for Meaf

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

Whilft rank corruption, mining all within,

Infects unfeen.

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

He lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and, as much as in him lyes, mines my gentility with my education.. As You Like its (55) That monfter cuftom, who all fer fe doth cat, Of habit's devil, is angel yet in tis; That to the use of actions fair and g od He likewife gives a freck, or liverys.

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 fhall lend a kind of eafinefs

To the next abftinence; the next, more eafy;
For ufe can almoft change the stamp 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 pleafed 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 fhalk I do?

you

do.

Ham. Not this, by no means, that I bid Let the fond King tempt you again to bed; Pinch wanton on your cheek; call you his moufe; 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 underfland. Habit's sevil certainly arofe from fome conceited tamperer with the text, who thought it was neecffary, in contraft to an gel The emendation of the text I owe to the fagacity of Dr Thirlby:

That monster custom, who all fenfe doth eat:

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 seconcile 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 fenfe and fecrefy,
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 fchoolfellows,

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

Haift with his own petard: and't fhall go hard,
But I will delve one yard below their mines,
And blow them at the moon. O, 'tis moft fweet,
When in one line two crafts directly meet!
This man fhall fet 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 a foolish prating knave.
Come, Sir, to draw toward an end with you.
Good-night, mother.

N

Exit Hamlet, tugging in Polonius.