Thanks, Sir; All The Rest Is Mute.

Take But Degree Away, Untune That String, And Hark, What Discord Follows!

Fight, Gentlemen Of England! Fight, Bold Yeomen! Draw, Archers, Draw Your Arrows To The Head! Spur Your Proud Horses Hard, And Ride In Blood; Amaze The Welkin With Your Broken Staves!

I Do I Know Not What, And Fear To Find Mine Eye Too Great A Flatterer For My Mind. Fate, Show Thy Force. Ourselves We Do Not Owe. What Is Decreed Must Be; And Be This So.

Our Wills And Fates Do So Contrary Run.

But Now Behold, In The Quick Forge And Working-house Of Thought, How London Doth Pour Out Her Citizens!