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"Poets always hate those in power. To them perfection is always just behind the last corner, or beyond the next. They escape the present in dreams of the past and future.
"It seems ages since I had a horse between my knees—but
In the old free days all I wanted was a sharp sword and a straight path to my enemies. Now no paths are straight and my sword is useless.
A great poet is greater than any king. His songs are mightier than my scepter; for he has near ripped the heart from my breast when he chose to sing for me. I shall die and be forgotten, but Rinaldo's songs will live for ever.
'We will be in Afghulistan before dawn.'
I never liked the fat fool, but we can't have Pictish devils making so cursed free with white men's heads.' The Picts were a white race, though swarthy, but the border men never spoke of them as such.
'From what hell have you crawled, you nighted dog?' muttered Conan, staring at the man.
The man who propelled this particular boat was as huge and brown as the others, though closer scrutiny might have revealed the fact that the hue was the result of carefully applied pigments.
