Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends,

Bruised underneath the yoke of tyranny,

Thus far into the bowels of the land

Have we marched on without impediment;

And here receive we from our father Stanley

Lines of fair comfort and encouragement.

The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar,

That spoiled your summer fields and fruitful vines,

Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough

In your embowelled bosoms—this foul swine

Is now even in the centre of this isle,

Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn.

From Tamworth thither is but one day’s march.

In God’s name, cheerly on, courageous friends,

To reap the harvest of perpetual peace

By this one bloody trial of sharp war.

Every man’s conscience is a thousand men,

To fight against that guilty homicide.

I doubt not but his friends will turn to us.

He hath no friends but what are friends for fear,

Which in his dearest need will fly from him.

All for our vantage. Then in God’s name, march.

True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings;

Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings.