My lord, the enemy is past the marsh
After the battle let George Stanley die.

A good direction, warlike sovereign.
This found I on my tent this morning.

Arm, arm, my lord; the foe vaunts in the field.

I warrant you, my lord.

I go, my lord.

Six or seven thousand is their utmost power.

We must both give and take, my gracious lord.

Here, most gracious liege.