Ay, But To Die, And Go We

It Is War's Prize To Take All Vantages; And Ten To One Is No Impeach Of Valor.

No Profit Grows Where No Pleasure Is Taken.

Will All Great Neptune's Ocean Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand? No, This My Hand Will Rather The Multitudinous Seas Incarnadine, Making The Green One Red.

No Matter Where; Of Comfort No Man Speak: Let's Talk Of Graves, Of Worms, And Epitaphs; Make Dust Our Paper And With Rainy Eyes Write Sorrow On The Bosom Of The Earth

Your Bait Of Falsehood Takes This Carp Of Truth.