A steed! a steed of matchlesse speed,
  A sword of metal keene!
All else to noble heartes is drosse,
  All else on earth is meane.
The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde,
  The rowlinge of the drum,
The clangor of the trumpet lowde,
  Be soundes from heaven that come;
And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,
  Whenas their war-cryes swell,
May tole from heaven an angel bright,
  And rouse a fiend from hell.

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
  And don your helmes amaine;
Deathe’s couriers, fame and honor, call
  Us to the field againe.
No shrewish feares shall fill our eye
  When the sword-hilt ’s in our hand—
Heart-whole we ’ll part, and no whit sighe
  For the fayrest of the land;
Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
  Thus weepe and puling crye;
Our business is like men to fight,
  And hero-like to die!