Classic Poem

IV.
Come follow me, my wandring mates,
Sonnes and daughters of the Fates:
Friends of night, that oft have done
Homage to the horned Moone,
Fairely march, and shun not light,
With such stars as these made bright;
Yet bend you low your curled tops,
Touch the hallowed earth, and then
Rise agen with anticke hops
Unus'd of men.
Here no danger is, nor feare,
For true Honour harbours here,
Whom Grace attends.
Grace can make our foes our friends.