Polonius: Do You Know Me, My Lord?

I Almost Die For Food, And Let Me Have It!

Rich Honesty Dwells Like A Miser, Sir, In A Poor House; As Your Pearl In Your Foul Oyster.

Beauty Within Itself Should Not Be Wasted.

Sir, The Year Growing Ancient, Not Yet On Summer's Death Nor On The Birth Of Trembling Winter, The Fairest Flowers O' Th' Season Are Our Carnations And Streaked Gillyvors, Which Some Call Nature's Bastards.

When A Man's Verses Cannot Be Understood, Nor A Man's Good Wit Seconded With The Forward Child Understanding, It Strikes A Man More Dead Than A Great Reckoning In A Little Room. Truly, I Would The Gods Had Made Thee Poetical.