Hamlet. Excellent well; you are a fishmonger
Polonius. Not I, my lord.
Hamlet. Then I would you were so honest a man.
Polonius. Honest, my lord?
Hamlet. Ay, sir: to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.
Polonius. That’s very true, my lord.
Hamlet. For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a good kissing carrion—Have you a daughter?
Polonius. I have, my lord.
Hamlet. Let her not walk i’ the sun: conception is a blessing; but not as your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to’t.
Polonius. How say you by that? (Aside.) Still harping on my daughter. Yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a fishmonger. He is far gone, far gone: and truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love; very near this. I’ll speak to him again.—What do you read, my lord?