Polonious: Do you know me, my lord?

Hamlet: Excellent, excellent well. You're a fishmonger.

Polonious: What do you read, my lord?

Hamlet: Words, words, words.

Polonious: What is the matter my, my lord?

Hamlet: Between who?

Polonious: I mean the matter you read, my lord?

Hamlet: Slanders, sir; for the the satirical slave says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber or plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams...yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down. You yourself, sir, should be as old as I am -- if, like a crab, you could go backward.

Polonious: Though this be madness, yet there is method in't. -- Will you walk out of the air, my lord?

Hamlet: Into my grave.

Polonious: Indeed, that is out o'th'air...My lord, I will take my leave of you.

Hamlet: You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal -- except my life, my life, my life.