Nights riding two.  Scant rest.  Days riding three,
Then Foulkstone.  Need is none to tell all forth
The gathering stores and men, the charter’d ship
That I, with two, my friends, got ready for sea. 
Ready she was, so many another, small
But nimble; and we sailing hugged the shore,
Scarce venturing out, so Drake had willed, a league,
And running westward aye as best we might,
When suddenly—­behold them! 
                             On they rocked,
Majestical, slow, sailing with the wind. 
O such a sight!  O such a sight, mine eyes,
Never shall you see more! 
                           In crescent form,
A vasty crescent nigh two leagues across
From horn to horn, the lesser ships within,
The great without, they did bestride as ’t were
And make a township on the narrow seas.

It was about the point of dawn:  and light. 
All grey the sea, and ghostly grey the ships;
And after in the offing rocked our fleet,
Having lain quiet in the summer dark.

O then methought, ’Flash, blessed gold of dawn,
And touch the topsails of our Admiral,
That he may after guide an emulous flock,
Old England’s innocent white bleating lambs. 
Let Spain within a pike’s length hear them bleat,
Delivering of their pretty talk in a tongue
Whose meaning cries not for interpreter.’

And while I spoke, their topsails, friend and foe,
Glittered—­and there was noise of guns; pale smoke
Lagged after, curdling on the sun-fleck’d main. 
And after that?  What after that, my soul? 
Who ever saw weakling white butterflies
Chasing of gallant swans, and charging them,
And spitting at them long red streaks of flame? 
We saw the ships of England even so
As in my vaunting wish that mocked itself
With ‘Fool, O fool, to brag at the edge of loss.’ 
We saw the ships of England even so
Run at the Spaniards on a wind, lay to,
Bespatter them with hail of battle, then
Take their prerogative of nimble steerage,
Fly off, and ere the enemy, heavy in hand,
Delivered his reply to the wasteful wave
That made its grave of foam, race out of range,
Then tack and crowd all sail, and after them
Again. 
        So harassed they that mighty foe,
Moving in all its bravery to the east. 
And some were fine with pictures of the saints,
Angels with flying hair and peaked wings,
And high red crosses wrought upon their sails;
From every mast brave flag or ensign flew,
And their long silken pennons serpented
Loose to the morning.  And the galley slaves,
Albeit their chains did clink, sang at the oar.

The sea was striped e’en like a tiger skin
With wide ship wakes. 
                        And many cried, amazed,
‘What means their patience?’
                             ‘Lo you,’ others said,
’They pay with fear for their great costliness. 
Some of their costliest needs must other guard;
Once guarded and in port look to yourselves,
They count one hundred and fifty.  It behoves
Better they suffer this long running fight—­
Better for them than that they give us battle,
And so delay the shelter of their roads.