"... still wars and lechery!"Troilus and Cressida
They whined their scrannel warning to the young:"Lo, all your dream of glory, how it lies!Was this its promise then, the dust and dung,The stench of blood, and cloud of sexton flies?"
Even such we knew, some worm o' the cesspit stung,Who rail'd on fair love's arrogant empriseBecause no breath from heaven made broad their lungAnd mire of flesh dwelt in their abject eyes.
But how could glory be, save that she mustStoop from her sphere to quicken sordid dustTurning to rapture our inflicted need?
Poor souls! to have never known the immortal willThat bends to no defeat, the heroic deedWhose doing is its only glory still.
