ANDREW MARVELL
She, having kill'd, no more does search But on the next green bough to perch, Where, when he first does lure, The falconer has her sure.
What may not then our Isle presume While victory his crest does plume ? What may not others fear,
As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul, To Italy an Hannibal,
And to all States not free
Shall climacteric be.
The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his particolour'd mind, But, from this valour, sad Shrink underneath the plaid,
Happy, if in the tufted biake The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.
But thou, the War's and Fortune's son,
March mdefatigably on;
And for the last effect, Still keep the sword erect.
Besides the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night, The same arts that did gam A power, must it maintain.
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