Yet let me thank you for this worthless life--
Worthless indeed, could I so lightly join
So grave a cause as yours. Still deem me not
The serf of custom to uphold a wrong,
Or slave of tyrants to deny a right,
Or such a one whose brib'd and paltry soul
Aims shafts of malice at a patriot's heart,
Hating the deed he cannot estimate:
As if, when some great exile to our land
Whose lips were touched with freedom's sacred fire,
But poor in wealth as virtue's richest heir,
Came speaking of the wrongs his country bore,
Men said in youth he robb'd an orphan trust,
The proof since burnt, betray'd a trusting friend,
Haply now dead, or any other lie
So monstrous, wicked, gross, improbable,
That weak men found it easier to believe
Than the invention; while the bad in heart,
By true worth most offended, felt relief,
Protesting still they wish'd it were not so,
With that lean babble, custom's scant half-mask,
Worn uselessly by hatred.
Think me not
Of these--nor yet too rash in sympathy.
I would reflect well ere I draw the sword
To fling the sheath away; I bid you now
A kind farewell.

_Crom._ Full soon to meet array'd
In arms, the instruments of Heaven together