…but There They Lay, Sprawled Across The

The Skin Of The Coward Changes Color All The Time, He Can't Get A Grip On Himself, He Can't Sit Still, He Squats And Rocks, Shifting His Weight From Foot To Foot, His Heart Racing, Pounding Inside The Fellow's Ribs, His Teeth Chattering. He Dreads Some Grisly Death. But The Skin Of A Brave Soldier Never Blanches. He's All Control. Tense But No Great Fear.

There Is No Greater Glory That Can Befall A Man That What He Achieves With The Speed Of His Feet Or The Strength Of His Hands.

I Wish That Strife Would Vanish Away From Among Gods And Mortals, And Gall, Which Makes A Man Grow Angry For All His Great Mind, That Gall Of Anger That Swarms Like Smoke Inside Of A Man's Heart And Becomes A Thing Sweeter To Him By Far Than The Dripping Of Honey.

't Is Fortune Gives Us Birth, But Jove Alone Endues The Soul With Worth.

A Man Dies Still If He Has Done Nothing, As One Who Has Done Much.