āThe hideous god of war.ā
āGet thee to a nunnery.ā
āWolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.ā
āWhat, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.ā
āI am not bound to please thee with my answer.ā
āAway, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!ā
āCry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!ā
āYet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbethā
āI had rather chop this hand off at a blow,And with the other fling it at thy face.ā