They were devils incarnate.
A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!
The rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance.
Are you up to your destiny?
Should the poor be flattered? No; let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, and crook the pregnant hinges of the knee where thrift may follow fawning.
Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.