Page:Boileau's Lutrin - a mock-heroic poem. In six canto's. Render'd into English verse. To which is prefix'd some account of Boileau's writings, and this translation. (IA boileauslutrinmo00boil).pdf/63

Art thou the Man, who blam'd the tedious Day,
And curs'd the lagging Sun's unkind Delay?
Rise, follow us; great Deeds great Souls inflame.
At this the Barber blush'd with gen'rous Shame.

Then to his well-fill'd Magazine he flies,$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$
Where many an Iron Weapon sacred lies,
Till call'd to Light on some brave Enterprize.
Some fashion'd by the skill'd Cornavian's Care,
At Birmingham, the Shop of Mulciber:
Not like those Arms of the dead-doing Kind;
These fasten things which were before disjoin'd:
Like an inverted Cone, of Metal strong,
Sharp Pointed, and quadrangularly long;
In Vulgar Speech call'd Nails; of these the best
He chose; a Hatchet his broad Shoulders prest:
A well-tooth'd Saw his brawny Body bends,
Which, like a Quiver, down his back descends:

Incourag'd