Quoth he a little chafed, ’Let be, let be,
No time is this for bargaining, good dame. 
Let be;’ and pushing past, ’Beshrew thy heart
(And mine that I should say it), bargain! nay. 
I meant not bargaining,’ she falters; crying,
’I brought them my poor gift.  Pray you now take,
Pray you.’ 
            He stops, and with a childlike smile
That makes the dame amend, stoops down to choose,
While I step up that love not many words,
‘What should he do,’ quoth I, ’to help this need
That hath a bag of money, and good will?’
‘Charter a ship,’ he saith, nor e’er looks up,
’And put aboard her victual, tackle, shot,
Ought he can lay his hand on—­look he give
Wide sea room to the Spanish hounds, make sail
For ships of ours, to ease of wounded men,
And succour with that freight he brings withal.’

His foot, yet speaking, was aboard his boat,
His comrades, each red apples in the hand,
Come after, and with blessings manifold
Cheering, and cries, ‘Good luck, good luck!’ they speed.

’T was three years three months past. 
                                        O yet methinks
I hear that thunder crash i’ the offing; hear
Their words who when the crowd melted away
Gathered together.  Comrades we of old,
About to adventure us at Howard’s best
On the unsafe sea.  For he, a Catholic,
As is my wife, and therefore my one child,
Detested and defied th’ most Catholic King
Philip.  He, trusted of her grace—­and cause
She had, the nation following suit—­he deemed,
’T was whisper’d, ay and Raleigh, and Francis Drake
No less, the event of battle doubtfuller
Than English tongue might own; the peril dread
As ought in this world ever can be deemed
That is not yet past praying for. 
                                     So far
So good.  As birds awaked do stretch their wings
The ships did stretch forth sail, full clad they towered
And right into the sunset went, hull down
E’en with the sun. 
                    To us in twilight left,
Glory being over, came despondent thought
That mocked men’s eager act.  From many a hill,
As if the land complained to Heaven, they sent
A towering shaft of murky incense high,
Livid with black despair in lieu of praise. 
The green wood hissed at every beacon’s edge
That widen’d fear.  The smell of pitchpots fled
Far over the field, and tongues of fire leaped up,
Ay, till all England woke, and knew, and wailed.

But we i’ the night through that detested reek
Rode eastward.  Every mariner’s voice was given
’Gainst any fear for the western shires.  The cry
Was all, ’They sail for Calais roads, and thence,
The goal is London.’ 
                      Nought slept, man nor beast. 
Ravens and rooks flew forth, and with black wings,
Affrighted, swept our eyes.  Pale eddying moths
Came by in crowds and whirled them on the flames.