Quotes About Victory

Yield not thy neckTo fortune's yoke, but let thy dauntless mindStill ride in triumph over all mischance.

Come the three corners of the world in arms,And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue,If England to itself do rest but true.

I may justly say with the hook-nosed fellow of Rome, "I came, saw, and overcame."

All's well that ends well: still the fine's the crown;Whate'er the course, the end is the renown.

Let Hercules himself do what he may,The cat will mew and dog will have his day.

Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.

They laugh that win.

Now is the winter of our discontentMade glorious summer by this sun of York.

Saint George, that swing'd the dragon, and e'er sinceSits on his horse back at mine hostess' door.

The painful warrior famoused for fight,After a thousand victories, once foil'd,Is from the books of honor razed quite,And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd.

Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front.

This day is call'd the feast of Crispian:He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd.And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip.

I know the disciplines of wars.

And many strokes, though with a little axe, Hew down and fell the hardest-timbered oak.

Lay on, Macduff, And damn'd be him that first cries, Hold, enough

The stubbornness of his character stood him now in good stead. He refused to consider himself defeated.

World War II had marked "the supreme triumph of man in his long battle with the scarcities in nature." By

My aim, then, was to whip the rebels, to humble their pride, to follow them to their inmost recesses, and make them fear and dread us. Fear is the beginning of wisdom.

I beg to present you as a Christmas gift the city of Savannah.

I would make this war as severe as possible, and show no symptoms of tiring till the South begs for mercy.

My aim then was, to whip the rebels, to humble their pride, to follow them to their inmost recesses, and make them fear and dread us.

I confess, without shame, that I am sick and tired of fighting — its glory is all moonshine; even success the most brilliant is over dead and mangled bodies, with the anguish and lamentations of distant families, appealing to me for sons, husbands, and fathers ... it is only those who have never heard a shot, never heard the shriek and groans of the wounded and lacerated ... that cry aloud for more blood, more vengeance, more desolation.

Andrew Bonar puts it, "The Prince of the power of the air seems to bend all the force of his attack against the spirit of prayer.