Ah, beer, my one weakness. My Achille's heel, if you will.

Come, Friend, you too must die. Why moan about it so? Even Patroclus died, a far, far better man than you. And look, you see how handsome and powerful I am? The son of a great man, the mother who gave me life-- A deathless goddess. But even for me, I tell you, Death and the strong force of fate are waiting. There will come a dawn or sunset or high noon When a man will take my life in battle too-- flinging a spear perhaps Or whipping a deadly arrow off his bow.

Of men who have a sense of honor, more come through alive than are slain, but from those who flee comes neither glory nor any help.

Long exercised in woes.

Few sons are like their fathers - many are worse, few better.

Shoulder-to-shoulder, swing to the work, we must - just two as we are - if we hope to make some headway. The worst cowards, banded together, have their power, but you and I have got the skill to fight their best.

…but there they lay, sprawled across the field, craved far more by the vultures than by wives.