I do begin to have bloody thoughts.
O horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee!
Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?
This sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh!
Truth hath a quiet breast.
Blessings of your heart, you brew good ale.