Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain! 
      Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain. 
      Let the shrill fife, the flute, the sackbut ring
      A summons to our Admiral, a salvo to our King.

MORIANA AND GALVAN

  Twas Princess Moriana,
    Upon a castle’s height,
  That played with Moorish Galvan
    At cards for her delight;
  And oft he lost the stakes he set,
    Full many a coin I wis;
  When Moriana lost, she gave
    Her hand for him to kiss. 
  And after hours of pleasure
    Moor Galvan sank to sleep;
  And soon the lady saw a knight
    Descend the mountain steep;
  His voice was raised in sorrow,
    His eyes with tears were wet,
  For lovely Moriana
    His heart could ne’er forget. 
  For her, upon St. John’s Day,
    While she was gathering flowers,
  The Moors had made a captive,
    Beneath her father’s towers. 
  And Moriana raised her eyes
    And saw her lover ride,
  And on her cheeks her Moorish lord
    The sparkling tears descried. 
  With anger raged his spirit,
    And thus to her he cried: 
  “What ails thee, gentle lady? 
    Why flows with tears thine eye? 
  If Moors of mine have done thee wrong,
    I swear that they shall die;
  If any of thy maidens
    Have caused thee this distress,
  The whip across their shoulders
    Shall avenge their wickedness. 
  Or, if the Christian countrymen
    Have sorrow for thee made,
  I will, with conquering armies,
    Their provinces invade. 
  The warlike weapons that I don
    Are festal robes to me;
  To me the din of battle
    Is sweet tranquillity;
  The direst toils the warrior bears
    With steadfast joy I meet;
  To me the watch that nightlong lasts
    Is like a slumber sweet.” 
  “No Moors of thine within these halls
    Have caused to me this pain;
  No maidens waiting in my bower
    Have showed to me disdain;
  Nor have my Christian kinsmen
    To mourn my spirit made,
  Provoking thee in vengeance
    Their province to invade. 
  Vain the deep cause of my distress
    From Galvan’s eye to hide—­
  ’Tis that I see down yonder mount
    A knight in armor ride. 
  ’Tis such a sight that does my tears
    From very heart-springs move;
  For yonder knight is all to me,
    My husband and my love.” 
  Straight the Moor’s cheek with anger flushed,
    Till red eclipsed the brown,
  And his clenched fist he lifted
    As if to strike her down. 
  He gnashed his teeth with passion,
    The fangs with blood were red,
  He called his slaves and bade them
    Strike off the lady’s head. 
  He bade them bind and take her
    First to the mountain’s height,
  That she the doom might suffer