That's not sunburn, that's the psychological taint of chicken murder.
Out, damned spot! out, I say! — One: two: why, then, 'tis time to do't. — Hell is murky! — Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? — Yet who would have thought the old chickens to have had so much blood in them?
The rooster of Fife had a wife; where is she now? — What, will these hands ne'er be clean? — No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting.
Here's the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. O, O, O!
____________________________
Belkira wrote:
Wow. Regular ol' Joph fan club in here.