A coward is the child of fear. He was begotten in cold blood, when
Nature had much ado to make up a creature like a man. His life is a kind
of sickness, which breeds a kind of palsy in the joints, and his death
the terror of his conscience, with the extreme weakness of his faith. He
loves peace as his life, for he fears a sword in his soul. If he cut his
finger he looketh presently for the sign, and if his head ache he is
ready to make his will. A report of a cannon strikes him flat on his
face, and a clap of thunder makes him a strange metamorphosis. Rather
than he will fight he will be beaten, and if his legs will help him he
will put his arms to no trouble. He makes love commonly with his purse,
and brags most of his maidenhead. He will not marry but into a quiet
family, and not too fair a wife, to avoid quarrels. If his wife frown
upon him he sighs, and if she give him an unkind word he weeps. He loves
not the horns of a bull nor the paws of a bear, and if a dog bark he
will not come near the house. If he be rich he is afraid of thieves, and
if he be poor he will be slave to a beggar. In sum, he is the shame of
manhood, the disgrace of nature, the scorn of reason, and the hate
of honour.