Speak To Me As To Thy Thinkings,

Not That I Loved Caesar Less, But That I Loved Rome More.

A Poor Thing, Perhaps, But My Own.

The Breach Of Custom Is Breach Of All.

Two Loves I Have, Of Comfort And Despair, Which Like Two Spirits Do Suggest Me Still: The Better Angel Is A Man Right Fair, The Worser Spirit A Woman Coloured Ill.

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