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Though, by kinde, a Turkey; whose plot that way
Was like a subtle Scowt to watch for prey;
Such as is blowne about by ev'ry wind;
But here's the dire mistake; this Foule (halfe blinde)
At Ieff'ry pecks, and with intent to eat
Him up, in stead of a large graine of Wheat:
Ieff'ry (in duell nice) ne're thinks upon't,
As the Turkeys hunger, but an affront.
His sword he drew; a better none alive
E're got from Spanish Foe, for Shillings Five.
And now, the Battaile doth begin: sound high
Your Oaten Reeds, t'encourage Victorie!
Strike up the wrathfull Tabor! and the Gitthern;
The loud Jew's-trump! and Spirit-stirring-Cittherne!
Ieff'ry the bold, as if he had o'reheard
These Instruments of Warre, his Arme uprear'd,
Then cryes St. George for England! and with that word
He mischief'd (what I pray?) nought but his sword:
Though some report, he noch'd the Foes left wing;
And Poets too, who faithfully did sing
This Battaile in Low-Dutch, tell of a few
Small Feathers there, which at the first charge flew
Was like a subtle Scowt to watch for prey;
Such as is blowne about by ev'ry wind;
But here's the dire mistake; this Foule (halfe blinde)
At Ieff'ry pecks, and with intent to eat
Him up, in stead of a large graine of Wheat:
Ieff'ry (in duell nice) ne're thinks upon't,
As the Turkeys hunger, but an affront.
His sword he drew; a better none alive
E're got from Spanish Foe, for Shillings Five.
And now, the Battaile doth begin: sound high
Your Oaten Reeds, t'encourage Victorie!
Strike up the wrathfull Tabor! and the Gitthern;
The loud Jew's-trump! and Spirit-stirring-Cittherne!
Ieff'ry the bold, as if he had o'reheard
These Instruments of Warre, his Arme uprear'd,
Then cryes St. George for England! and with that word
He mischief'd (what I pray?) nought but his sword:
Though some report, he noch'd the Foes left wing;
And Poets too, who faithfully did sing
This Battaile in Low-Dutch, tell of a few
Small Feathers there, which at the first charge flew
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