I Have Shot Mine Arrow O'er The

What We Determine We Often Break. Purpose Is But The Slave To Memory.

Of All Complexions The Culled Sovereignty Do Meet, As At A Fair, In Her Fair Cheek, Where Several Worthies Make One Dignity, Where Nothing Wants That Want Itself Doth Seek.

Some Rise By Sin, And Some By Virtue Fall.

Sycorax Has Grown Into A Hoop

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.