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.

As I love the name of honour more than I fear death.

So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

There is not one wise man in twenty that will praise himself.

What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry.