Man Created God, Not God, Man

Men, I'm Getting Out Of Rome. Anyone Who Wants To Carry On The War Against The Outsiders, Come With Me. I Can Offer You Neither Honours Nor Wages; I Offer You Hunger, Thirst, Forced Marches, Battles And Death. Anyone Who Loves His Country, Follow Me

Ah, No, Far Be From Me A Thought Which I Loathe Like Poison.

To This Wonderful Page In Our Country's History Another More Glorious Still Will Be Added, And The Slave Shall Show At Last To His Free Brothers A Sharpened Sword Forged From The Links Of His Fetters.

Bacchus Has Drowned More Men Than Neptune.

If These Hands, Used To Fighting, Would Be Acceptable To His Holiness, We Most Thankfully Dedicate Them To The Service Of Him Who Deserves So Well Of The Church And Of The Fatherland.