Death’s couriers, Fame and Honour, call 15
Us to the field again.
No shrewish tears shall fill our eye,
When the sword-hilt’s in our hand;
Heart-whole we’ll part, and no whit sigh
For the fairest in the land. 20
Let piping swain and craven wight
Thus weep and puling cry;
Our business is like men to fight,
And, like to heroes, die!