[Sc. xvii.]
Queene. Alas, it is his madnes makes him thus,
And not his heart, Leartes.
King. My lord, t'is so: but wee'le no longer trifle,
This very day shall Hamlet drinke his last,
For presently we meane to send to him, 5
Therfore Leartes be in readynes.
Lear. My lord, till then my soule will not bee quiet.
King. Come Gertred, wee'l haue Leartes, and our sonne,
Made friends and Louers, as befittes them both,
Euen as they tender vs, and loue their countrie. 10
Queene God grant they may. exeunt omnes.