T. H. White

Life is blood, shed and offered. / The eagle’s eye can face this dree. / To beasts of chase the lie is proffered: / Timor Mortis Conturbat Me. Shame to the slothful and woe to the weak one. / Death to the dreadful who turn to flee. / Blood to the tearing, the talon’d, the beaked one. / Timor Mortis are We.