No coronet of diamonds became Her Grace so well;
A coat of mail of burnished steel the Royal Maiden wore,
And, in her fair white hand, aloft a truncheon-sceptre bore;
Then up she spoke, and reined her steed before the troops to stand,
And all could hear her accents clear beside the Essex strand:
“My loving friends, my courtiers say I run a risk this morn,
That treason lurks in martial throngs! Their cautious speech I scorn!
For rather than distrust you all, from life I’d sooner part:
Let tyrants fear! Next to my God I trust my people’s heart:
So come I in your midst to-day, the Spaniards to defy,