The Coward Dies A Thousand

The Hand That Hath Made You Fair Hath Made You Good.

Your Lordship, Though Not Clean Past Your Youth, Have Yet Some Smack Of Age In You, Some Relish Of The Saltiness Of Time.

The Gods Are Deaf To Hot And Peevish Vows. They Are Polluted Off'rings, More Abhorred! Than Spotted Livers In The Sacrifice.

I Would Challenge You To A Battle Of Wits, But I See You Are Unarmed!

Would I Were Dead, If God's Good Will Were So, For What Is In This World But Grief And Woe?