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- 1210
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:18.534Z
- extracted_by
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- start_line
- 1184
- text
- soldiers. 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. Though in prison,
Geoffry Hudson, the dwarf, died more bravely than Goliah, the giant;
and the last end of a butterfly shames us all. Some women have lived
nobler lives, and died nobler deaths, than men. Threatened with the
stake, mitred Cranmer recanted; but through her fortitude, the lorn
widow of Edessa stayed the tide of Valens’ persecutions. ’Tis no great
valor to perish sword in hand, and bravado on lip; cased all in panoply
complete. For even the alligator dies in his mail, and the swordfish
never surrenders. To expire, mild-eyed, in one’s bed, transcends the
death of Epaminondas.
- title
- Chunk 2