I war not with the dead.

Once harm has been done, even a fool understands it.

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

I can't even say the word 'titmouse' without giggling like a schoolgirl.

And overpowered by memory Both men gave way to grief. Priam wept freely For man - killing Hector, throbbing, crouching Before Achilles' feet as Achilles wept himself, Now for his father, now for Patroclus once again And their sobbing rose and fell throughout the house.

And not a man appears to tell their fate.

I war not with the dead.