I would rather be fastened by a blasphemous fustyplug than behold thy wit for another month.

You great uncle of a mouth-licking swollen-headed haggard.

Wast thou created by a blighted wine-bibber, or is thy handsomeness normally so malodorous?

Thy crown remindeth me of the dastards of Donleigh on Woldside, whom doth hang their own speech.