You daring Sons of War!
You cannot purchase ere you die
One honourable scar,
Since that fair hand that gilded all your bays;
70That in heroic numbers wrote your praise,
That you might safely sleep in Honour's bed,
Itself, alas! is wither'd, cold, and dead:
Cold and dead are all those charms
That burnish'd your victorious arms;
Those useless things hereafter must