And what our predecessors lost to Spain,
We have fresh spirits that can renew’t again.
And. Then I unclasp the purple leaves of war:
Many a new wound must gasp through an old scar.
So, Portugal, I leave thee.
King. Ourself in person
Will see thee safe aboard: come, son, come, lords,
Instead of tribute we must pay our swords.
Bal. Remember, Don Andrea, that we meet.
And. Up hither sailing in a crimson fleet.