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I'll draw my sword, nor ever sheath it up,
Till England blow the trump of victory,
Or I lie stretch'd upon the field of death. [Exeunt.
SCENE VI.—In the Camp. Several of the Warriors met in the King's Tent. A Minstrel sings.
O Sons of Trojan Brutus, cloth'd in war,
Whose voices are the thunder of the field,
Your ancestors came from the fires of Troy,
(Like lions rous'd by lightning from their dens,
Whose eyes do glare against the stormy fires,)
Heated with war, fill'd with the blood of Greeks,
With helmets hewn, and shields covered with gore,
In navies black, broken with wind and tide.
They landed in firm array upon the rocks
Of Albion; they kiss'd the rocky shore:
'Be thou our mother and our nurse,' they said,
'Our children's mother; and thou shalt be our grave,
'The sepulchre of ancient Troy, from whence
'Shall rise cities, and thrones, and awful powers.'
Our fathers swarm from the ships. Giant voices
Are heard from out the hills; the enormous sons
Of Ocean run from rocks and caves: wild men,
Naked, and roaring like lions, hurling rocks,
And wielding knotty clubs, like oaks entangled,
Thick as a forest ready for the axe.
Our fathers move in firm array to battle;
The savage monsters rush like roaring fire,
Like as a forest roars with crackling flames.
When the red lightning borne by furious storms
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