Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises.
Death is a fearful thing.
I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air.
You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.
Faith, stay here this night; they will surely do us no harm; you saw they speak us fair, give us gold; methinks they are such a gentle nation that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, could find in my heart to stay here still and turn witch.
I must be cruel, only to be kind.