All deaths are hateful to miserable mortals, but the most pitiable death of all is to starve.

Not two strong men the enormous weight could raise,- Such men as live in these degenerate days.

I'm like that guy who single-handedly built the rocket and flew to the moon. What was his name? Apollo Creed?

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

Let me not then die ingloriously and without a struggle, but let me first do some great thing that shall be told among men hereafter.

All right, let's not panic. I'll make the money by selling one of my livers. I can get by with one.

And not a man appears to tell their fate.