I will not trust you, I, Nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray, My legs are longer though, to run away.
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men.
The fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it.
He was not so much brain as earwax
Conscience is a thousand swords.
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night.