It is the cowish terror of his spirit that dares not undertake; he'll not feel wrongs which tie him to an answer.

O, let me kiss that hand! KING LEAR: Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.

All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told.

A very ancient and fish-like smell.

The latter end of a fray, and the beginning of a feast, Fits a dull fighter, and a keen guest.

What's done can't be undone.

If her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her, she would infect to the north star!