Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
Virtue is the fount whence honour springs.
Our swords shall play the orators for us.
I'm armed with more than complete steel, - The justice of my quarrel.
What are kings, when regiment is gone, but perfect shadows in a sunshine day?
Jigging veins of rhyming mother wits.
Above our life we love a steadfast friend.
Is it not passing brave to be a King and ride in triumph through Persepolis?
