The Moon, Like To A Silver Bow

Like A Red Morn That Ever Yet Betokened, Wreck To The Seaman, Tempest To The Field, Sorrow To The Shepherds, Woe Unto The Birds, Gusts And Foul Flaws To Herdmen And To Herds.

Here I And Sorrows Sit; Here Is My Throne, Bid Kings Come Bow To It.

Well, If Fortune Be A Woman, She's A Good Wench For This Gear.

I Would Give All Of My Fame For A Pot Of Ale And Safety.

And Gentlemen In England Now-a-bed Shall Think Themselves Accurs'd They Were Not Here, And Hold Their Manhoods Cheap Whiles Any Speaks That Fought With Us Upon Saint Crispin's Day.