Here Comes A Man Of Comfort, Whose

Virtue Itself Scapes Not Calumnious Strokes.

The Weakest Kind Of Fruit Drops Earliest To The Ground.

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

My Heart Is Turned To Stone; I Strike It, And It Hurts My Hand.

I See Men's Judgments Are A Parcel Of Their Fortunes; And Things Outward Do Draw The Inward Quality After Them, To Suffer All Alike.