A. You blame me that I ran away?
       Why, Sir, the enemy advanced:
   Balls flew about, and—who can say
       But one, if I stood firm, had glanced
   In my direction? Cowardice?
   I only know we don’t live twice,
   Therefore—shun death, is my advice.
B. Shun death at all risks? Well, at some
       True, I myself, Sir, though I scold
    The cowardly, by no means come
       Under reproof as overbold
  —I, who would have no end of brutes
   Cut up alive to guess what suits
   My case and saves my toe from shoots.
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