War and Peace

The brazen throat of war.

Which if not victory is yet revenge.

My sentence is for open war.

Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds: At which the universal host up sent A shout that tore hell’s concave, and beyond Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night.

Th’ imperial ensign, which, full high advanc’d, Shone like a meteor, streaming to the wind. 3

His spear, to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast Of some great ammiral, were but a wand, He walk’d with, to support uneasy steps Over the burning marle.

Peace hath her victories No less renown’d than war.

No war, or battle’s sound Was heard the world around. The idle spear and shield were high up hung.

Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we’ll die with harness on our back.

Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still, “They come”; our castle’s strength Will laugh a siege to scorn.

Banners flout the sky.

First Witch: When shall we three meet again In thunder, lightning, or in rain? Second Witch: When the hurlyburly’s done, When the battle’s lost and won.

Then, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!

An honorable murderer, if you will; For nought I did in hate, but all in honor.

In Aleppo once, Where a malignant and a turban’d Turk Beat a Venetian and traduc’d the state, I took by the throat the circumcised dog, And smote him thus.

O! now, forever Farewell the tranquil mind; farewell content! Farewell the plumed troop and the big wars That make ambition virtue! O, farewell! Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner, and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! And, O you mortal engines, whose rude throats The immortal Jove’s dread clamors counterfeit, Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone!

Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.

Horribly stuff’d with epithets of war.

The chance of war.

O Julius Caesar! thou art mighty yet! Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords In our own proper entrails.

Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war.

Grow like savages—as soldiers will, That nothing do but meditate on blood.

The naked, poor, and mangled Peace, Dear nurse of arts, plenties, and joyful births.

The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the fix’d sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each other’s watch: Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames Each battle sees the other’s umber’d face: Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tents The armorers, accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation.