HAMLET         Sir, his definement suffers no perdition in you, though I know to divide him inventorially would dazzle th’arithmetic of memory, and yet but yaw neither, in respect of his quick sail; but in the verity of extolment I take him to be a soul of great article and his infusion of such dearth and rareness as, to make true diction of him, his semblable is his mirror, and who else would trace him, his umbrage, nothing more.

OSRIC  Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him. (5.2.98-106)

Hamlet’s not being particularly nasty, but he is being utterly insufferable, mocking Osric’s praise of Laertes with his parodically elevated diction: sir, his definement suffers no perdition in you. Honestly, your description of him leaves nothing out, you’re definitely not damning him with faint praise! WOW! Though—a seeming concession—I know to divide him inventorially would dazzle th’arithmetic of memory; if you tried to break down his praises, part by part, it’d be impossible, you’d lose track of all his different qualities of amazingness! Too much! Impossible to count! And yet but yaw neither, in respect of his quick sail; you’d still fall short, going all over the place in the attempt to capture just how straightforwardly brilliant Laertes is. (The metaphor is from yachting—oh yes—comparing Laertes as the ship who keeps the straight course to those tacking around all over the place in order to try to praise him.) Hamlet draws breath.

And then goes back for another go, beating Osric around the head with WORDS WORDS WORDS: but in the verity of extolment (to praise him truly) I take him to be a soul of great article, a seriously important person, a person of note—and his infusion of such dearth and rareness, oh yes, his essence is SO distinctive, so PRECIOUS as, to make true diction of him, to give an accurate report and description—well, it’s impossible, isn’t it? NO ONE is like Laertes, no account of him can capture him truly, except his own reflection, for his semblable is his mirror, and who else would trace him, any attempt to copy, let alone emulate him or out do him, well, you’d be merely his umbrage, a pale shadow, nothing more. (Hamlet’s diction through here is Latinate, obscure, relishing sound and cadence. Insufferable, but amazingly so. Horatio’s allowed to cringe or be properly uneasy: why’s Hamlet doing this, wasting time, doesn’t he realise that a crisis is approaching?) All Osric can do—perhaps after a baffled, battered pause, is to respond, maybe weakly, maybe joyously (Hamlet understands how lovely Laertes is!) that your lordship speaks most infallibly of him. YES! Everything you say is true!