Put Forth Thy Hand, Reach

O England! Model To Thy Inward Greatness, Like Little Body With A Might Heart.

Give Sorrow Words; The Grief That Does Not Speak Knits Up The O-er Wrought Heart And Bids It Break.

Though Music Oft Hath Such A Charm To Make Bad Good, And Good Provoke To Harm.

By God, I Cannot Flatter, I Do Defy The Tongues Of Soothers! But A Braver Place In My Heart's Love Hath No Man Than Yourself. Nay, Task Me To My Word; Approve Me, Lord.

Nothing 'gainst Times Scythe Can Make Defence.