TELL me what boots to battle, when the end 
 Is foreseen failure? What, by heaven, I ask? 
 By bearded martyrs, and the holy cask 
Of papal comfort, what can struggle lend 
Of true nobility to those who bend 
 Constrainèd after all? ?Twere better bask 
 With resignation and a quiet flask 
Than rush to strokes that heaven will surely send. 
 
Methinks the base desire to change our stars 
 Is but the taint of old mortality, 
 And as the wavelet curls in every sea 
The schoolboy bares his wounds and thinks him Mars. 
 Give me Petrarca and a pot of tea, 
And carry thou thy honourable scars.