Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea,
Breasting the lofty surge: O, do but think
You stand upon the rivage,[3] and behold
A city on the inconstant billows dancing;
For so appears this fleet majestical,
Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow!
Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy;[4]
And leave your England, as dead midnight still,
Guarded with grandsires, babies, and old women,
Either past, or not arriv’d to, pith and puissance;