As I gird on for fighting
  My sword upon my thigh,
I think on old ill fortunes
  Of better men than I.
 
Think I, the round world over,
  What golden lads are low
With hurts not mine to mourn for
  And shames I shall not know.
 
What evil luck soever
  For me remains in store,
'Tis sure much finer fellows
  Have fared much worse before.
 
So here are things to think on
  That ought to make me brave,
As I strap on for fighting
  My sword that will not save.