To Be Once In Doubt Is Once

Things May Serve Long, But Not Serve Ever.

Here Comes A Man Of Comfort, Whose Advice Hath Often Stilled My Brawling Discontent.

If I Lose My Honor, I Lose Myself: Better I Were Not Yours Than Yours So Branchless.

From Camp To Camp, Through The Foul Womb Of Night, The Hum Of Either Army Stilly Sounds, That The Fixed Sentinels Almost Receive The Secret Whispers Of Each Other's Watch. Fire Answers Fire, And Through Their Play Flames Each Battle Sees The Other's Umbered Face. Steed Threatens Steed, In High And Boastful Neighs Piercing The Night's Dull Ear; And From The Tents The Armorers Accomplishing The Knights, With Busy Hammers Closing Rivets Up, Give Dreadful Note Of Preparation.

O Fortune, Fortune! All Men Call Thee Fickle.