Classic Poem

  Giul. You say, “we'll have no blood.” Then let us wash
His throat with poison. I know rogues who deal in
Black aconite, and such like lazy drinks;
But one sells a quicker juice, whereof a drop
Will kill—in a breath—a giant!
  Ferd. That is good.
  Giul. Yet steel is surer: and a blow (while't sends
Life through our limbs, like a swift race), doth calm
The turbulent spirits, and gives time for vengeance.
I hate to see the brute I hate fall dead
Without a struggle. Let's kill him like men,
And stand up freshened from the exercise!