I sound like sweetness, a pet name; I was a scourge, stoker of war's flame.

Printed. Dyed. Under a tie. Cotton or poly. Full sleeved or shy. Remove just one letter, its profane in its cry. The upper half’s sheath. Some pocketed high.

I bend what’s straight so sight can crawl, Through metal halls with none at all. No windows here, yet crews still cope, What am I?

Take a common measure of milk, add an ‘e’. Sailed after stolen on the seven seas.

I am not a river, but I carry the same, though smaller in size, I still have my fame. What am I?