’Tis not the friends kind fate hath sent
Full of brave thoughts and hardiment,
Though at your back a stalwart friend
His blade will swing, swift to defend,
Nor heed though foemen be a host,
Yet not of these I make my boast,
Nay, not of these!
Whose face is fresh as morning fair,
Whose hands the whitest anywhere,
What is the one thing I can praise,