'Now, good Lord Marmion,' Heron says,
'Of your fair courtesy,
I pray you bide some little space 215
In this poor tower with me.
Here may you keep your arms from rust,
May breathe your war-horse well;
Seldom hath pass'd a week but giust
Or feat of arms befell: 220
The Scots can rein a mettled steed;
And love to couch a spear:--
Saint George! a stirring life they lead,
That have such neighbours near.
Then stay with us a little space, 225
Our northern wars to learn;
I pray you, for your lady's grace!'--
Lord Marmion's brow grew stern.