"I bring my fraught unto the wished port, My Summer’s hope, my travels’ sweet reward: And here, with humble duty, I present This sacrifice, this first fruit of my sword, Cropped and cut down even at the gate of death, The king of Boheme, father, whom I slew; Whose thousands had entrenched me round about, And lay as thick upon my battered crest, As on an Anvil, with their ponderous glaves:"