Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants, all

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants, all! And don your helmes amaine: Deathe’s couriers, Fame and Honour, call Us to the field againe. No shrewish teares shall fill our eyes 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!