That I, in forgery of shapes and tricks,
Come short of what he did.
Laer.
A Norman was't?
King.
A Norman.
Laer.
Upon my life, Lamond.
King.
The very same.
Laer.
I know him well: he is the brooch indeed
And gem of all the nation.
King.
He made confession of you;
And gave you such a masterly report
For art and exercise in your defence,
And for your rapier most especially,
That he cried out, 'twould be a sight indeed
If one could match you: the scrimers of their nation
He swore, had neither motion, guard, nor eye,
If you oppos'd them. Sir, this report of his
Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy
That he could nothing do but wish and beg
Your sudden 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 sorrow,
A face without a heart?
Laer.
Why ask 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 see, in passages of proof,