Or perhaps the reason you practise three hours a day is that you already found one and are otherwise incapable of wooing said strumpet. You're not a eunuch, are you?
The moonlight shows us for what we really are. We are not among the living, and so we cannot die. But neither are we dead. For too long I've been parched of thirst and unable to quench it. Too long I've been starving to death and haven't died. I feel nothing. Not the wind on my face nor the spray of the sea. Nor the warmth of a woman's flesh.
Of the two of us, I am the only one who hasn't committed mutiny. Therefore, my word is the one we'll be trusting. Although, I suppose I should be thanking you, because, in fact, if you hadn't betrayed me and left me to die I would have an equal share in that curse, same as you.
— So. This is the path you've chosen, is it? After all, he is a blacksmith.
— No. He's a pirate.
— Anna-Maria!
— I suppose you didn't deserve that one either.
— No, that one I deserved.
— On our return to Port Royal, I granted you clemency. And this is how you thank me? By throwing in your lot with him? He's a pirate.
— And a good man. If all I've achieved here is the hangman will earn two pairs of boots instead of one, so be it. At least my conscience will be clear.
— You forget your place, Turner.
— It's right here, between you and Jack.
Elizabeth... It would never have worked between us, darling... I'm sorry.
— My apologies, miss.
— Captain Barbossa, I am here to negotiate the cessation of hostilities against Port Royal.
— There were a lot of long words in there, miss. We're nought but humble pirates. What is it that you want?
— I want you to leave and never come back.
— I'm disinclined to acquiesce to your request. Means no.
That's exactly what I thought when we were first told the tale. Buried on an Island of the Dead what cannot be found except for those who know where it is. Find it, We did. There be the chest. Inside be the gold. And we took them all. We spent them and traded them and frittered them away on drink and food and pleasurable company. The more we gave them away, the more we came to realise the drink would not satisfy, food turned to ash in our mouths, and all the pleasurable company in the world could not slake our lust. We are cursed men, Miss Turner. Compelled by greed we were, but now we are consumed by it.
— I hardly believe in ghost stories any more, Captain Barbossa. <...>
— You'd best start believing in ghost stories, Miss Turner. You're in one.
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