Of the quaking recruit, three pitched battles make a grim grenadier; and he who shrank from the muzzle of a cannon, is now ready to yield his mustache for a sponge.
And truly, since death is the last enemy of all, valiant souls will taunt him while they may.

Yet rather, should the wise regard him as the inflexible friend, who, even against our own wills, from life's evils triumphantly relieves us.
And there is but little difference in the manner of dying.

To die, is all.

And death has been gallantly encountered by those who never beheld blood that was red, only its light azure seen through the veins.

And to yield the ghost proudly, and march out of your fortress with all the honors of war, is not a thing of sinew and bone.