Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?

To unpathed waters, undreamed shores.

I am not of that feather, to shake off my friend when he must need me

I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff, sixpenny strikers, none of these mad, mustachio purple-hued maltworms, but with nobility and tranquillity.

The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart-see, they bark at me.

Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling and a rich.

Time does not have the same appeal for every one