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There never was a time when, in my opinion, some way could not be found to prevent the drawing of the sword.

Guilt upon the conscience, like rust upon iron, both defiles and consumes it, gnawing and creeping into it, as that does which at last eats out the very heart and substance of the metal.

Everyone needs a warm personal enemy or two to keep him free from rust in the movable parts of his mind.

Never give a sword to a man who can't dance.

If you rest, you rust.

I'd much rather wear out than rust out.

The sword - the first, for a time the only force: the force of iron.

The oil can is mightier than the sword.

Steel is needed everywhere.

War seems to come out of nowhere, like rust that suddenly pops up on iron after a storm.