First rule, stick them with the pointy end!

Books are dead men talking.

I know nothing and perhaps I never will.

all men carry murder in their hearts, yet even so, the poisoner is beneath contempt.

Some gave me soft words and some blunt, some made excuses, some promises, some only lied. In the end words are just wind.

She just laughed in his face and told him she'd sooner crawl in a bed with his father's leeches before she'd crawl in one with him. She stopped laughing when he put his knife in her.

If a man paints a target on his chest, he should expect that sooner or later someone will loose an arrow on him.