Tis An Ill Cook That Cannot Lick

Hamlet: Lady, Shall I Lie In Your Lap? Ophelia: No, My Lord. Hamlet: Did You Think I Meant Country Matters? Ophelia: I Think Nothing, My Lord. Hamlet: That's A Fair Thought To Lie Between Maids' Legs. Ophelia: What Is, My Lord? Hamlet: Nothing.

For I Am Proverbed With A Grandsire Phrase.

Can One Desire Too Much Of A Good Thing?

Death Is My Son-in-law, Death Is My Heir.

I Must To The Barber's, Monsieur, For Methinks I Am Marvellous Hairy About The Face.