The coward's weapon, poison.

What's one man's poison, signior, Is another's meat or drink.

Talk no more of the lucky escape of the head From a flint so unhappily thrown; I think very different from thousands; indeed 'Twas a lucky escape for the stone.

I would much prefer to suffer from the clean incision of an honest lancet than from a sweetened poison

They would like to poison me.

Hold, there is forty ducats. Let me have A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear As will disperse itself through all the veins That the life-weary taker may fall dead, And that the trunk may be discharged of breath As violently as hasty powder fired Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb.