POLONIUS      This above all, to thine own self be true

And it must follow as the night the day

Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Farewell, my blessing season this in thee.

LAERTES        Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.

POLONIUS      The time invites you. Go, your servants tend.

LAERTES        Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well

What I have said to you.

OPHELIA                    ’Tis in my memory locked

And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

LAERTES                    Farewell.                    Exit.     (1.3.77-86)

Because it’s familiar, because it’s become—and was, in its own time—a cliché, it’s easy to overlook how loving Polonius’s final words to his son are, or can be. This above all, to thine own self be true: the emphasis can fall on thine, as father says to son, I trust you, trust you to be your own moral compass, to do the right thing. You’re a good person. If you do what your conscience tells you, it must follow as the night the day thou canst not then be false to any man. I know you’ll do right by other people too; the two things go together. I’ve done my best as your father, and now it’s up to you. Farewell, my blessing season this in thee: I pray that you will always remember what I’ve said, and that I love you; that’s all I can do for you now.

If Laertes has been rolling his eyes a bit, he needs to stop, because it matters that there is deep love and mutual respect between father and son. Stillness, Laertes. Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord. He can kneel again—humbly suggests it—or bow, or embrace his father again—and if at Polonius’s entrance, father enfolded son in a big hug, then it makes sense for that to be reversed here, a big bear hug from the son who’s back off into the world. The time invites you, says Polonius, come on, you’ll be late; go, your servants tend. They’re waiting. Perhaps Ophelia joins in a hug too; they can be really close, these three.

Back to Ophelia—and it’s a beautifully managed set-up of the next part of the scene. Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well what I have said to you. Look after yourself, OK? ’Tis in my memory locked and you yourself shall keep the key of it. Yes, alright, I promise I’ve taken it all on board, she says, because it’s you telling me and I know you mean well—and it’s a strikingly material metaphor, this sense of her memory as a casket, something enclosed, full of things. (Laertes and Hamlet think of remembering in terms of writing things down.)

Farewell. Laertes out. Family, fractured.