There's small choice in rotten apples.
Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!
My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.
Exit, pursued by a bear.
That's a valiant flea that dares eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion.
We are oft to blame in this, - 'tis too much proved, - that with devotion's visage, and pios action we do sugar o'er the devil himself.