Renowned nobles are passing away.

Lo! Greatest Rolf, thy great ones have fallen, thy holy line is vanishing.

No dim and lowly race, no low-born dead, no base souls are Pluto's prey, but he weaves the dooms of the mighty, and fills Phlegethon with noble shapes.
"I do not remember any combat wherein swords were crossed in turn and blow dealt out for blow more speedily.

I take three for each I give; thus do the Goths requite the wounds I deal them, and thus doth the stronger hand of the enemy avenge with heaped interest the punishment that they receive.

Yet singly in battle I have given over the bodies of so many men to the pyre of destruction, that a mound like a hill could grow up and be raised out of their lopped limbs, and the piles of carcases would look like a burial-barrow.