The Play's The Thing.

What Thing, In Honor, Had My Father Lost, That Need To Be Revived And Breathed In Me?

Trust Not My Reading, Nor My Observations, Which With Experimental Seal Do Warrant The Tenor Of My Book.

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

The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy Rolling, Doth Glance From Heaven To Earth, From Earth To Heaven; And As Imagination Bodies Forth The Forms Of Things Unknown, The Poet's Pen Turns Them To Shape, And Gives To Airy Nothing A Local Habitation And A Name; Such Tricks Hath Strong Imagination.

How Slow This Old Moon Wanes! She Lingers My Desires, Like To A Stepdame, Or A Dowager, Long Withering Out A Young Man's Revenue.