“Do thou restrain the haughty spirit in thy breast, for better far is gentle courtesy.”

“Hast thou ice that thou shalt bind itTo thy breast, and make thee deadTo thy children, to thine own spirit's pain?When the hand knows what it dares,When thine eyes look into theirs,Shalt thou keep by tears unblindedThy dividing of the slain?These be deeds Not for thee:These be things that cannot be!”

“Is it thy will, thy image should keep openMy heavy eyelids to the weary night?Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from theeSo far from home into my deeds to pry,To find out shames and idle hours in me,The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:It is my love that keeps mine eye awake:Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,To play the watchman ever for thy sake:For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,From me far off, with others all too near.”

“Oh, thou clear spirit, of thy fire thou madest me, and like a true child of fire, I breathe it back to thee.”

“Thou hast spread Thy arms to embrace far too many,Flinging Thy hands out till they reach the ends of the crossbeam.”

“Dost thou question my word, Sir Knight?" Madorallen returned in an ominously quiet voice. "And wilt thou then come down and put thy doubt to the test? Or is it perhaps that thou wouldst prefer to cringe doglike behind thy parapet and yap at thy betters?" "Oh, that was very good," Barak said admiringly.”