In Every Sorrowing Soul I Pour'd Delight,

What Is This Word That Broke Through The Fence Of Your Teeth, Atreides?

Reproach Is Infinite, And Knows No End So Voluble A Weapon Is The Tongue; Wounded, We Wound; And Neither Side Can Fail For Every Man Has Equal Strength To Rail.

Anger, Which, Far Sweeter Than Trickling Drops Of Honey, Rises In The Bosom Of A Man Like Smoke.

Even When Someone Battles Hard, There Is An Equal Portion For One Who Lingers Behind, And In The Same Honor Are Held Both The Coward And The Brave Man; The Idle Man And He Who Has Done Much Meet Death Alike.

Ajax The Great Himself A Host.