And Now I'm Using Sarcasm, To Confess

For Too Much Rest Becomes A Pain.

Come Then, Put Away Your Sword In Its Sheath, And Let Us Two Go Up Into My Bed So That, Lying Together In The Bed Of Love, We May Then Have Faith And Trust In Each Other.

I Hate To Tell Again A Tale Once Fully Told.

...if Fifty Bands Of Men Surrounded Us/ And Every Sword Sang For Your Blood,/ You Could Make Off Still With Their Cows And Sheep.

And Empty Words Are Evil.