Marry, in France we fear no blood, but wine;
Less danger’s in her sword, than in her vine.
And thus we leave the blazers coming over,
For our portents are wise, and end at Dover:
And though we use no forward censuring,
Nor send our learned proctors to the king,
Yet every morning when the star doth rise,
There is no black for three hours in our eyes;
But like a Puritan dreamer, towards this light
All eyes turn upward, all are zeal and white: