LAERTES My necessaries are embarked; farewell.
And sister, as the winds give benefit
And convey is assistant, do not sleep
But let me hear from you.
OPHELIA Do you doubt that?
LAERTES For Hamlet and the trifling of his favour,
Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood,
A violet in the youth of primy nature,
Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting,
The perfume and suppliance of a minute,
No more.
OPHELIA No more but so. (1.3.1-10)
New scene, change of pace and situation: Laertes, who’s spoken briefly already in the previous scene, and Ophelia, his sister. (Not yet named aloud.) And he’s on his way back to Paris: my necessaries are embarked, he says, I’m all checked in and my luggage is on board already. Farewell. I’m out of here. And sister, as the winds give benefit and convey is assistant—so far as it’s possible, so far as you can find someone to deliver your letters, do not sleep but let me hear from you. Write to me, OK? As often as you can? There’s an opportunity here for Laertes to send himself up a bit in his slightly pompous earnestness (where could he have got that from?) or else he’s really like this, taking himself very seriously. But he doesn’t have to be overbearing; it can be a fond farewell, two siblings who are close, who look out for each other. Ophelia doesn’t seem bothered: do you doubt that? Of course I’ll write, big brother.
Then he gets a bit more serious (or a bit more pompous/overbearing—although he could be embarrassed at bringing it up, visibly steeling himself to say this): for Hamlet and the trifling of his favour—you know, Hamlet, the PRINCE, the way he’s been flirting with you, if that’s what it is—she can roll her eyes, or else look properly embarrassed—hold it a fashion and a toy in blood. That’s all it is, flirting; it’s just playing around so far as he’s concerned. He’s toying with you, a bit of fun. It’s like a violet in the youth of primy nature—she is totally allowed to laugh at this particular simile; brother, what are you DOING?—forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting. Violets are beautiful, they smell lovely, gorgeous colour, but they don’t last, they fade; that’s the point of them. Hamlet’s just behaving like any other young man. Yes, it’s nice while it lasts, heady and distracting and gorgeous—the perfume and suppliance of a minute—but that’s all it is. There one minute, gone the next. No more. It doesn’t MEAN anything. It won’t LAST.
No more but so, she replies, and there’s a huge range of options there, repeating his words back to him, brother, you’re such a drag, I know, I know, and I know what I’m doing, OK? Or she can be a bit cowed, a bit unsure: maybe she hasn’t thought about this, maybe she realises that Laertes is leaving her alone at Elsinore. Ooooo, a whole spectrum of new relationships and emotions opens up, and a whole new side to Hamlet. (And Laertes, and Ophelia.)