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 like not fair terms and a villain's mind.

They are sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.

Plenty and peace breed cowards; hardness ever of hardiness is mother.

To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons.

I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.

This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.