Was flourishing in air his father’s cane,
And, as the fumes of valour swell’d his pate,
Now thought himself this hero, and now that:
“And now,” he cried, “I will Achilles be;
My sword I brandish; see, the Trojans flee!
Now I’ll be Hector, when his angry blade
A lane through heaps of slaughter’d Grecians made!
And now my deeds, still, braver I’ll evince,
I am no less than Edward the Black Prince.
Give way, ye coward French!” As thus he spoke,