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King, A Norman.

Laer. Upon my life, Lamond.

King. The very

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 mafterly report, For art and exercife in your defence; And for your rapier moft efpecial,

That he cry'd out, 'twould be a Sight indeed,

If one could match you. The Scrimers of their nation, (64)
He fwore, 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 nothing do, but with 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 father, But that I know, love is begun by time;

And that I fee in paffages of proof,
Time qualifies the fpark 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 still;

(64)

The Scrimers of their Nation,

He favore, had neither Motion, Guard, nor Eye, If you oppos'd them.] This likewife is a Paffage omitted in the Folio's The reducing the Play to a reasonable Length was the Motive of fo many Caftrations. Some of the modern Quarto's have in the room of Scrimers fubftituted Fencers: which is but a Glofs of the more obfolete Word. Scrimer is properly a Gladiator, Fencer; from which we have deriv'd our Word, Skirmish. The Science of Defense was by the Dutch call'd Scherm; by the Italians, Scherima and Scrima; and by the French, Efcrime: As the Anglo-Saxons of old used to call a Fencer or Swordfman, Scrimbre: which (the b being left out, and a Metathefis made in the Letters of the laft Syllable) is the very Term us'd by our Author.

For

For goodnefs, growing to a pleurifie, (65)
Dies in his own too much; what we would do,
We fhould 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 fpend-thrif. figh
That hurts by eafing; but to th' quick o' th' ulcer-
Hamlet comes back; what would you undertake
To fhew your felf your father's Son indeed

More than in words?

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

King. No place, indeed, should murther fanctuarife; Revenge fhould have no bounds; but, good Laertes, Will you do this? keep clofe within your chamber; Hamlet, return'd, fhall know you are come home : We'll put on thofe fhall praife your excellence,

(65) For Goodness, growing to a Pleurifie,

Dies in his own too much ] Mr. Warburton fagaciously observ'd to that this is Nonsense, and untrue in Fact; and therefore thinks, that Shakespeare must have wrote;

me,

For Goodness, growing to a Plethory, &c.

For the Pleurify is an Inflammation of the Membrane which covers the whole Thorax; and is generally occafion'd by a Stagnation of the Blood; but a Plethora, is, when the Veffels are fuller of Humours than is agreeable to a natural State, or Health: and too great a Fullness and Floridnefs of the Blood are frequently the Caufes of fudden Death. But I have not disturb'd the Text, becaufe, 'tis poffible, our Author himself might be out in his Phyfics: and I have the more Reafon to fufpect it, because Beaumont and Fletcher have twice committed the felf-fame Blunder.

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If I may guefs at the Accident which caus'd their Mistake, it seems this. They did not confider, that Pleurifie was deriv'd from Pleura; but the Declination of plus, pluris, crofs'd their Thoughts, and fo they naturally fuppos'd the Distemper to arife from fome Superfluity.

Y 3

And

And fet a double varnish on the fame

The Frenchman gave you; bring you in fine together,
And wager on your heads. He being remifs,
Moft generous, and free from all contriving,
Will not perufe the foils; fo that with ease,
Or with a little fhuffling, you may chuse
A fword unbated, and in a pafs of practice
Requite him for your father.
Laer. I will do't;

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 Simples 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
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 fhould 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,
(As make your bouts more violent to that end,)
And that he calls for Drink, I'll have prepar'd him
A Chalice for the nonce; whereon but fipping,
If he by chance escape your venom'd tuck,
Our purpose may hold there.

Enter Queen.

How now, fweet Queen?

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

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Queen. There is a willow grows aflant a Brook, That fhews his hoar leaves in the glaffie ftream:

There

There with fantaftick garlands did fhe come,
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daifies, and long purples,
(That liberal fhepherds give a groffer name;
But our cold maids do dead mens fingers call them ;)
There on the pendant boughs, her coronet weeds
Clambring to hang, an envious fliver broke ;
When down her weedy trophies and her felf
Fell in the weeping brook; her cloaths spread wide,
And mermaid-like, a while they bore her up;
Which time fhe chaunted fnatches of old tunes,
As one incapable of her own diftrefs;
Or like a creature native, and indewed

Unto that element: but long it could not be,
'Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.

Laer. Alas then, fhe is drown'd!
Queen. Drown'd, drown'd.

Laer. Too much of water haft thou, poor Ophelia,
And therefore I forbid my tears but yet

It is our trick; Nature her custom holds,

Let Shame fay what it will; when these are gone,

The woman will be out: adieu, my lord;

I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze,
But that this folly drowns it.

[Exit.

King. Follow, Gertrude:

How much had I to do to calm his rage?

Now fear I, this will give it start again;
Therefore let's follow.

[Exeunt.

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ACT V.

SCENE, A CHURCH.

Enter two Clowns, with fpades and mattocks.

I CLOWN.

S fhe to be buried in chriftian burial, that willfully feeks her own falvation?

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2 Clown. I tell thee, fhe is, therefore make her Grave straight; the crowner hath fate on her, and finds it chriftian burial.

I Clown. How can that be, unless the drowned her felf in her own defence?

2 Clown. Why, 'tis found fo..

1 Clown. It must be fe offendendo, it cannot be else. For here lyes the point; if I drown my felf wittingly, it argues an act; and an act hath three branches; It is to act, to do, and to perform; argal, fhe drown'd her felf wittingly.

2 Clown. Nay, but hear you, goodman Delver.

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I Clown. Give me leave; here lies the water, good : here stands the man, good: if the man go to this water, and drown himself, it is, will he, nill he, he goes; mark you that but if the water come to him, and drown him, he drowns not himself. Argal, he, that is not guil

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y of his own death, fhortens not his own life. 2 Clown. But is this law?

1 Clown. Ay, marry is't, crowner's queft-law.

2 Clown. Will you ha' the truth on't? if this had not been a gentlewoman, fhe fhould have been buried out of chriftian burial.

1 Clown. Why, there thou fay'ft. And the more pity, that great folk fhould have countenance in this world to

drown

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