To Rankling Poison Hast Thou

To Gain A Crown By Fighting Is Great, To Reject It Divine.

Man Is Made Of The Wholly Common, And Custom Is His Nurse; Woe Then To Them Who Lay Irreverent Hands On His Old House-furniture, The Dear Inheritance From His Forefathers: For Time Consecrates, And What Is Gray With Age Becomes Religion.

Only The Soldier Is A Free Man, Because He Can Look Death In The Face.

O The Eye's Light Is A Noble Gift Of Heaven! All Beings Live From Light, Each Fair Created Thing; The Very Plants Turn With A Joyful Transport To The Light.

Yet Have I Ever Heard It Said That Spies And Tale-bearers Have Done More Mischief In This World Than Poisoned Bowl Or The Assassin's Dagger.