Drawn by six solemn Flanders steeds, and girt
By a full score of stalwart serving men,
Approaching, gave the signal to begin,
Even there a London Scrivener, with his brood
Of pale and purse-proud children of the fog,
Sate in their ancient place, beneath the crest
Which Black Sir Walter wore at Agincourt;
Ay, over the cold stones, where lies at peace
The knight who fell at Naseby, by his King,
There sate his steward’s grandson.