Anybody who walks into your room knows immediately that you get blasted, broseph, and that most of your pride, social standing and self worth are derived from your ability to drink litres upon litres of spiced rum.

O Hope! how cunning with our cares to gloze Griefes breathing poynt, the truceman to desire, The rest in sighes, the very thoughts repose; As thou art milde, oh! wert thou not a lier?

Are you nuts? Don't answer that – it's a rhetorical question.

He is both incorporeal, and omnicorporeal, for there is nothing of any body which he is not