One of my Polynesian sailors lay at death's door with blackwater fever.

The Freſhneſs of this Valley ſmote their Eye, And drew them ever and anon more nigh, 'Till cluſtering round th'Enchanter falſe they hung, Ymolten with his Syren Melody;

He is so darned pig-headed.

And on the off-chance you're in a Devil's Triangle (two dudes, one girl): NO, NO, NO, NO, I HATE THIS, I HATE THIS, IHATETHISIHATETHISNONONONONONONONO. I'm sorry.