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. — **** 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!
Wow. Regular ol' Joph fan club in here.