The Horn, The Horn, The Lusty Horn

I Cannot Do It Without Comp[u]ters.

Modest Wisdom Plucks Me From Over-credulous Haste.

Downy Sleep, Death's Counterfeit.

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.

Your Lordship, Though Not Clean Past Your Youth, Have Yet Some Smack Of Age In You, Some Relish Of The Saltiness Of Time.