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.

Which would you rather be, a conqueror in the Olympic games, or the crier that proclaims who are conquerors?

The man who acts the least, upbraids the most.

I'm not a bath man myself. More of a cologne man.

I'm a white male, age 18 to 49. Everyone listens to me, no matter how dumb my suggestions are.

First you don't want me to get the pony, then you want me to take it back. Make up your mind!

How delicate her feet who shuns the ground, Stepping a-tiptoe on the heads of men.