Incarnadine the land where Mars doth rule
And rubious the hand that bears the sword.
Though arms mistempered serve a vicious lord,
The swasher’s heart still beats within a fool.
Unsisting is the tyrant’s thirst for blood
Though rooky graveyards fill with fracted bones
And cedent tears fall moist on stelled stones,
The gnarling dogs of war eat men for food.
So do not infamize the name of peace
Or scorn to be affined with peaceful men.
Though peace’s blessings to warriors be invised,
They all convive with blessings of increase.
As meaningless as “land-damn” is the war
That’s fought without a needly cause before.
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