We are but warriors for the working day;
Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch'd
With rainy marching in the painful field:
There's not a piece of feather in our host
(Good argument and hope we will not fly),
And time hath worn us into slovenry;
But by the Mass our hearts are in the trim.
Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch'd
With rainy marching in the painful field:
There's not a piece of feather in our host
(Good argument and hope we will not fly),
And time hath worn us into slovenry;
But by the Mass our hearts are in the trim.
xii
