A Scar Nobly Got Is A Good

Good Hay, Sweet Hay, Hath No Fellow.

O, Spirit Of Love, How Quick And Fresh Art Thou!

Of All Base Passions, Fear Is The Most Accursed.

Do All Men Kill The Things They Do Not Love?

Milk-livered Man, That Bear'st A Cheek For Blows, A Head For Wrongs; Who Hast Not In Thy Brows An Eye Discerning Thine Honor From Thy Suffering; [that Not Know'st Fools Do Those Villains Pity Who Are Punished Ere They Have Done Their Mischief. Where's Thy Drum? France Spreads His Banners In Our Noiseless Land, With Plumed Helm Thy State Begins To Threat, Whilst Thou, A Moral Fool, Sits Still And Cries 'alack, Why Does He So?']