Let the foils be
brought, the gentleman willing, and the King hold his
purpose,
I will win for him if I can; if not, I will gain nothing but
my
shame and the odd hits.
Osr. Shall I redeliver you e'en so?
Ham. To this effect, sir, after what flourish your nature will.
Osr. I commend my duty to your lordship.
Ham. Yours, yours. [Exit Osric.] He does well to commend it
himself; there are no tongues else for's turn.
Hor. This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head.
Ham. He did comply with his dug before he suck'd it. Thus has
he,
and many more of the same bevy that I know the drossy age
dotes
on, only got the tune of the time and outward habit of
encounter-
a kind of yesty collection, which carries them through and
through the most fann'd and winnowed opinions; and do but
blow
them to their trial-the bubbles are out,
Enter a Lord.
Lord. My lord, his Majesty commended him to you by young Osric,
who
brings back to him, that you attend him in the hall. He sends
to
know if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes, or that you
will
take longer time.
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