If he that in the field is slain Be in the bed of honour lain, He that is beaten may be said To lie in Honour's truckle-bed.

As quick as lightning, in the breach Just in the place where honour's lodged, As wise philosophers have judged, Because a kick in that place more Hurts honour than deep wounds before.

Honor is like a widow, won With brisk attempt and putting on.

Now, while the honour thou hast got Is spick and span new.

Quoth Hudibras, I smell a rat; Ralpho, thou dost prevaricate.

For now the field is not far off Where we must give the world a proof Of deeds, not words.