The skin of the coward changes color all the time, he can't get a grip on himself, he can't sit still, he squats and rocks, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his heart racing, pounding inside the fellow's ribs, his teeth chattering. He dreads some grisly death. But the skin of a brave soldier never blanches. He's all control. Tense but no great fear.

Sing, O muse, of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans.

His descent was like nightfall.

Pffft, English. Who needs that? I'm never going to England.

All deaths are hateful to miserable mortals, but the most pitiable death of all is to starve.

His native home deep imag'd in his soul.

The proof of battle is action, proof of words, debate. No time for speeches now, it's time to fight.