the whole differencebetween a wood and an armyis lovethey that laugh and do nothingonly respect the graverazing all the strongholdsgiving the land a massacre in the fieldsbut none of the men I write aboutburn like candles
a half-moonover the maps of severalpoor countriesthat sullen bastard will go at midnighttake the child and dance itin his armsguarded by his horsethe soldier is a flying armyin his headgoing to be marriedso the rape is hushed upmouths receive the sacramentwhose breadwould pay for a warblood on the back stairsnot capable of bearing children
where all discourse of warwhere a man can command a committeeI would have my own roseand an onion to suckit is strange to see how jealousof me they are
the pen sat hiring ships to go to warin a pretty handand is now very discretemore than meI am among other things a manthat history missedmy victory over doubtwas killed and taken
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