(83)
“Of yore never once did I ween it,
When I wielded the cleaver of targets,
That sickness was fated to foil me--
A fighter so hardy as I.
But I shrink not, for others must share it,
Stout shafts of the spear though they deem them,
--O hard at my heart is the death-pang,--
Thus hopeless the bravest may die.”