Classic Poem

Think a brief while on the most marvellous arts
Of our high-purposed labour, citizens;
And having thought, draw clear conclusions thence;
And say, do not ours seem but childish parts?
Also on these intestine sores and smarts
Ponder advisedly; and the deep sense
Thereof shall bow your heads in penitence,
And like a thorn shall grow into your hearts.
If, of our foreign foes, some prince or lord
Is now, perchance, some whit less troublesome,
Shall the sword therefore drop into the sheath?
Nay, grasp it as the friend that warranteth:
For unto this vile rout, our foes at home,
Nothing is high or awful save the sword.