Vor. Thou coward! what, afraid? O! shame, fie on’t!
Off. Consider, sir, your queen yet lives.
Vor. My friend, thou’rt in the right. To arms, then,—out.
Bring me my burnish’d shield, my weighty axe,
And man the northern gate; let every bell
Sound forth its brazen peal, until they rouse
Our tombed fathers from their silent graves,
To come and aid us at this pinch of time:
Ring till the very steeples totter down.
Mark well my orders; he that flinches, dies.