Words Are Grown So False, I Am

Though Yet Of Hamlet Our Dear Brother's Death The Memory Be Green.

The Arms Are Fair, When The Intent Of Bearing Them Is Just.

It Is Certain That Either Wise Bearing Or Ignorant Carriage Is Caught As Men Take Diseases, One Of Another.

By The Pricking Of My Thumbs, Something Wicked This Way Comes.

My Father's Wit, And My Mother's Tongue, Assist Me!