Some cried, ’But England hath the better cause;
We think not those good days indeed are done;
We look to Heaven for aid on England’s side.’ 
Then other, ’Nay, the harvest is above,
God comforts there His own, and ill men leaves
To run long scores up in this present world,
And pay in another. 
                      Look not here for aid. 
Latimer, poor old saint, died in the street
With nigh, men say, three hundred of his kind,
All bid to look for worse death after death,
Succourless, comfortless, unfriended, curst. 
Mary, and Gardiner, and the Pope’s man Pole
Died upon down, lulled in a silken shade,
Soothed with assurance of a waiting heaven,
And Peter peering through the golden gate,
With his gold key in ‘s hand to let them in.’

‘Nay, leave,’ quoth I, ’the martyrs to their heaven,
And all who live the better that they died. 
But look you now, a nation hath no heaven,
A nation’s life and work and wickedness
And punishment—­or otherwise, I say
A nation’s life and goodness and reward
Are here.  And in my nation’s righteous cause
I look for aid, and cry, so help me god
As I will help my righteous nation now
With all the best I have, and know, and am,
I trust Thou wilt not let her light be quenched;
I go to aid, and if I fall—­I fall,
And, God of nations, leave my soul to Thee.’

Many did say like words, and all would give
Of gold, of weapons, and of horses that
They had to hand or on the spur o’ the time
Could gather.  My fair dame did sell her rings,
So others.  And they sent us well equipped
Who minded to be in the coming fray
Whether by land or sea; my hope the last,
For I of old therewith was conversant.

Then as we rode down southward all the land
Was at her harvesting.  The oats were cut
Ere we were three days down, and then the wheat,
And the wide country spite of loathed threat
Was busy.  There was news to hearten us: 
The Hollanders were coming roundly in
With sixty ships of war, all fierce, and full
Of spleen, for not alone our sake but theirs
Willing to brave encounter where they might.

So after five days we did sight the Sound,
And look on Plymouth harbour from the hill. 
Then I full glad drew bridle, lighted straight,
Ran down and mingled with a waiting crowd.

Many stood gazing on the level deep
That scarce did tremble; ’t was in hue as sloes
That hang till winter on a leafless bough,
So black bulged down upon it a great cloud
And probed it through and through with forked stabs
Incessant, and rolled on it thunder bursts
Till the dark water lowered as one afraid.