O fading honours of the dead! O high ambition, lowly laid!
Revenge is the sweetest morsel to the mouth, that ever was cooked in hell.
Respect was mingled with surprise, And the stern joy which warriors feel In foeman worthy of their steel.
Norman saw on English oak. On English neck a Norman yoke; Norman spoon to English dish, And England ruled as Normans wish; Blithe world in England never will be more, Till England's rid of all the four.
Randolph, thy wreath has lost a rose.