Page:The dispensary - a poem in six canto's (sic) (IA b30356775).pdf/87

⁠Machaon, whose Experience we adore,
Great as your matchless Merits, is your Pow'r,
At your Approach, the baffled Tyrant Death
Breaks his keen Shafts, and grinds his clashing Teeth,
To you we leave the Conduct of the Day;
What you command, your Vassals must obey.
If this dread Enterprise you wou'd decline,
We'll lend to treat, and stifle the Design.
But if my Arguments had force, we'd try
To humble our audacious Foes, or die.
Our Spight, they'll find, to their Advantage leans,
The End is good, no matter for the Means.
So modern Casuists their Talents try,
Uprightly for the sake of Truth to lye.

⁠He had not finish'd, 'till th'Out-guards descry'd
Bright Columns move in formidable Pride.
The passing Pomp so dazzled from afar,
It seem'd a Triumph, rather than a War.
Tho' wide the Front, tho' gross the Phalanx grew,
It look'd less dreadful as it nearer drew.

⁠The adverse Host for Action strait prepare;
All eager to unviel the Face of War.
Their Chiefs lace on their Helms, and take the Field,
And to their trusty Squires resign their Shield:
To paint each Knight, their Ardour and Alarms,
Wou'd ask the Muse that sung the Frogs in Arms.

⁠And now the Signal summons to the Fray;
Mock Falchions flash, and paltry Ensigns play.

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