And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow,
[♦] Long kept in Bretagne at our mother’s cost?
[325] A milk-sop, one that never in his life
Felt so much cold as over shoes in snow?
Let’s whip these stragglers o’er the seas again,
Lash hence these overweening rags of France,
These famish’d beggars, weary of their lives,
330 Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit,
For want of means, poor rats, had hang’d themselves:
[♦] If we be conquer’d, let men conquer us,