Quotes About Insult

Volvía a escuchar esa despedida maricona diciéndole: Fue bonito conocerte. Pero qué descaro del güevón darle la cortada con tanta finura.

An insult angers me. Being ignored crushes me.

When someone attempts to insult you know that they are inadvertently giving away what would insult them.

Using insult instead of argument is the sign of a small mind.

Pythias once, scoffing at Demosthenes, said that his arguments smelt of the lamp.

Advice for a human 86. To like something is to insult it. Love it or hate it. Be passionate. As civilisation advances, so does indifference. It is a disease. Immunize yourself with art. And love.

You know, it's such an insult to actual martial artists that I say that I do martial arts.

You're an enemy of art and I pity your ignorance," Domingo said.

Thou art a Castilian King urinal!

My cousin's a fool, and thou art another.

Smee you, idjit!

The priest DID have it coming, though, Lelldorin declared hotly. What priest? The priest of Chaldan at that little chapel who wouldn't marry us because Arianna couldn't give him a document proving she had her family's consent. He was very insulting. Did you break anything? A few of his teeth is about all-- and I stopped hitting him as soon as he agreed to perform the ceremony.

he began to feel that she was very lonely indeed. "If he'd been here," she said, "those cowards would never have dared to insult me." She thought about "him" with great sadness and perhaps longing--about his honest, stupid, constant kindness and fidelity; his never-ceasing obedience; his good humour; his bravery and courage. Very likely she cried, for she was particularly lively, and had put on a little extra rouge, when she came down to dinner.

I can endure poverty but not shame-neglect but not insult,and insult from you..

The pilot of the other Apache was my superior. Calling him an asshole is an insult to our anatomy.

Thou art a very ragged Wart.

William Shakespeare

O me, you juggler, you canker-blossom, you thief of love!

You are not worth the dust which the rude wind blows in your face

What, you egg? [stabs him]

Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.

How Low am I, thou painted Maypole? Speak: How Low am I? I am not yet so Low But that my Nails can reach unto thine Eyes

Get you gone, you dwarf, You minimus of hindering knotgrass made, You bead, you acorn!

Thou sodden-witted lord! thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows.