There's Many A Man Hath More Hair

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

Still It Cried ‘sleep No More!’ To All The House: ‘glamis Hath Murder’d Sleep, And Therefore Cawdor Shall Sleep No More,—macbeth Shall Sleep No More!

What If This Cursed Hand Were Thicker Than Itself With Brother's Blood Is There Not Rain Enough In The Sweet Heaves To Wash It White As Snow?

A Very Scurvy Fellow.

Some Innocents 'scape Not The Thunderbolt.