sonance

To horse , you gallant princes , straight to horse .
Do but behold yond poor and starvèd band ,
And your fair show shall suck away their souls ,
Leaving them but the shales and husks of men .
There is not work enough for all our hands ,
Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins
To give each naked curtal ax a stain ,
That our French gallants shall today draw out
And sheathe for lack of sport . Let us but blow on
them ,
The vapor of our valor will o’erturn them .
’Tis positive against all exceptions , lords ,
That our superfluous lackeys and our peasants ,
Who in unnecessary action swarm
About our squares of battle , were enough
To purge this field of such a hilding foe ,
Though we upon this mountain’s basis by
Took stand for idle speculation ,
But that our honors must not . What’s to say ?
A very little little let us do ,
And all is done . Then let the trumpets sound
The tucket sonance and the note to mount ,
For our approach shall so much dare the field
That England shall couch down in fear and yield .