Polonius: What Do You Read, My Lord?

O Gentle Son, Upon The Heat And Flame Of Thy Distemper, Sprinkle Cool Patience.

This Thought Is As A Death.

I'll Say She Looks As Clear As Morning Roses Newly Washed With Dew.

Of All Knowledge The Wise And Good Seek Most To Know Themselves.

Fruits That Blossom First Will First Be Ripe.