Sprung of a kingly race, and not like her
Whose rule has been a curse unto this land,
A bastard peasant, spawned in infamy,
We pledge thee in our beakers: pledge thou us
And if perchance, O Queen, thy widowed days
Pass wearily and sorrow sleep with thee
Ere youth has even ripened with the sun
In thy clear cheeks, then choose among us men;
For we are young, and hardy in the chase,
And foremost in the battle, and our limbs