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.