Though Patience Be A Tired Mare, Yet

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.

What Showers Arise, Blown With The Windy Tempest Of My Heart

The Gates Of Monarchs Are Arched So High That Giants May Jet Through And Keep Their Impious Turbans On Without Good Morrow To The Sun.

Affection, Mistress Of Passion, Sways It To The Mood Of What It Likes Or Loathes.

Is Twenty Hundred Kisses Such A Trouble?