Against the infidel! He shall not reap
His field, nor gather of his vine, nor pray
To his false gods—no! save by trembling stealth,
Whilst I can grasp a sword! Wherefore, noble friends,
Think not of truce with me!—but think to quaff
Your wine to the sound of trumpets, and to rest
In your girt hauberks, and to hold your steeds
Barded in the hall beside you. Now turn back,
[He throws a spear on the ground before them.
Ye that are weary of your armour’s load: