Alas, I hath glimpsed thy aberrant longbow, and now I art affear’d I may be checked by it.

I hope to not sense thy malodorous comportment for another century, and even then, t’would be preferable were it a plume-plucked mountebank.

Thou art belike to a shearwater-shrinking peacock, only moreso pernicious.

Hast thy charisma been cloven from a blob of mud with a ploughshare?