Oh, my tattered rags are caught on your coffee table.
I'll get out of this city alive, even if it kills me!
Behold, on wrong Swift vengeance waits; and art subdues the strong.
Discourse, the sweeter banquet of the mind.
There is no fouler fiend than a woman when her mind is bent to evil.
And by the Sacred Parchment, I swear that if I reveal the secrets of The Stonecutters, may my stomach become bloated and my head be plucked of all but three hairs