How Low Am I, Thou Painted Maypole?

My Lord, They Say Five Moons Were Seen To-night-- Four Fixed, And The Fifth Did Whirl About The Other Four In Wondrous Motion.

Polonius: What Do You Read, My Lord? Hamlet: Words, Words, Words.

Hanging And Wiving Goes By Destiny.

New Customs, Though They Be Never So Ridiculous (nay, Let Em Be Unmanly), Yet Are Followed.

That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect, For Slander's Mark Was Ever Yet The Fair; The Ornament Of Beauty Is Suspect, A Crow That Flies In Heaven's Sweetest Air.