Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?
Small to greater matters must give way.
Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me.
Out of my sight! Thou dost infect mine eyes.
He was ever precise in promise-keeping.
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet