And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,
I will be brief. Your noble son is mad:
Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,
What is’t but to be nothing else but mad?
But let that go.
Queen.— More matter, with less art.
Pol.—Madam, I swear I use no art at all,
That he is mad, ’tis true; ’tis true ’tis pity,
And pity ’tis ’tis true; a foolish figure;
But farewell it, for I will use no art.