King
The very same.
Laertes
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 especial,
That he cried out, ’twould be a sight indeed,
If one could match you: the scrimers of their nation,
He swore, had had neither motion, guard, nor eye,
If you opposed 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—
Laertes
What out of this, my lord?
King
Laertes, was your father dear to you?
Or are you like the painting of a sorrow,