O, thou vile hedge-born knave! Thou clumsy sot! Didst thou think to steal my power by destroying my papers? Thou hast only proven thyself a mandrake mymmerkin--a puppet with no wit! I shall wither thy reputation as I wither thy vile weeds in my garden! What madness possesseth thy brain? Thou has broken the sanctity of my sanctum, shattered my life's work--my precious formulae, my potions! To; destroy my spellbooks is to invite a fate worse than a troll's banquet! I shall make of thee a eunich, if the fates allow! By God's wounds, thou unlicked cub! Thou hast committed a deed of high malice! Hear me: I curse thee with the itch of a thousand scabs, and may thy limbs shrink to the size of a mandrake's root! To break in, to break my work... thou shalt answer to the dark arcane powers I invoke this hour!
