Your horse would trot as well were some of your brags dismounted....
It is easy to be brave from a safe distance
I could do without your face, and without your neck, and your hands, and your limbs, and, to save myself the trouble of mentioning the points in detail, I could do without you altogether.
I am prostrate with joy that my bonsai offering is acceptable to your holiness. (BTW, it likes a gentle rain each day and is allergic to lightning bolts.)
Sophia, if he turns himself into a toad, maybe a kiss would turn him back and win his favor. Surely a little toad-kissing is better than plotting evil against your fellow followers. And I certainly don't want to have to do it!
I ponder the ability of gods to make all their female followers made available...
Beck to insulting deb..
At the depths of that dusty soul there is nothing but abject surrender!
No, Terry. I'm just trying to keep him from rearranging my buttocks again. I'm flying under the radar (which is an incredible feat for me.) It is the bunny who has plotted and spoken unhandsomely-like to his lordship.
They are currently feuding and smiting one another with particularly unattractive facial maladies. Shhh. Let's listen.
(I never saw the bonsai!)
Well, thus he plays the fool with the time, and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock him.
Hey! Most of it is Shakespeare! (I threw in a little Donne, and me, before I could find me little book of Shakespeare's insults>)
Brassy, brazen witch on a mortgaged broomstick, a steamroller with cleats.
Oh, I see I meant to say "Ni!" at the beginning, not "neep".
Sorry.
What happened to your face? Do you step on rakes for a hobby?
You speak unskilfully: or, if your knowledge be more, it is much darkened in your malice.
And, furthermore, a stonecutter or a painter could not have made thee so ill, though they had been but two years o'th' trade.
Shall I step on thee, and see?
You, minion, are too saucy
If you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt
She hath more hair than wit, and more faults than hairs..
Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn to ashes.
Here's a large mouth indeed,
That spits forth death and mountains, rocks and seas,
Talks as familiarly of roaring lions
As maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs!
You are the hare of whom the proverb goes,
Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard.
