Of them whose servile acts live in their graves,
But should raise spleens big as a cannon-bullet
Within your bosoms: O, for honour,
Your country’s reputation, your lives’ freedom,
Indeed your all, that may be termed revenge,
Now let your bloods be liberal as the sea;
And all those wounds that you receiv[’d] of Spain,
Let theirs be equal to quit yours again.
Speak, Portugals! are you resolved as I,
To live like captives, or as free-born die?