"Thou think'st," he said, "to injure me alone,

  But know thou wilt thyself as much molest:

  For if we fight because yon rising sun

  This raging heat has kindled in thy breast.

  What were thy gain, and what the guerdon won,

  Though I should yield my life, or stoop my crest;

  If she shall never be thy glorious meed,

  Who flies, while vainly we in battle bleed?