Lilies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than

What Wouldst Thou Do, Old Man? Think'st Thou That Duty Shall Have Dread To Speak When Power To Flattery Bows?

I That Please Some, Try All, Both Joy And Terror Of Good And Bad, That Makes And Unfolds Error.

Tear-falling Pity Dwells Not In This Eye.

Lord Polonius: What Do You Read, My Lord? Hamlet: Words, Words, Words. Lord Polonius: What Is The Matter, My Lord? Hamlet: Between Who? Lord Polonius: I Mean, The Matter That You Read, My Lord.

I Am Thy Father's Spirit; Doom'd For A Certain Term To Walk The Night And, For The Day, Confin'd To Fast In Fires, Till The Foul Crimes, Done In My Days Of Nature, Are Burnt And Purg'd Away.