To deathless fame he loudly pleads his right,—
Just is his title,—for he will not fight:
All soldiers valour, all divines have grace,
As maids of honour beauty,—by their place:
But, when indulging on the last campaign,
His lofty terms climb o'er the hills of slain;
He gives the foes he slew, at each vain word,
A sweet revenge, and half absolves his sword.
Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid,
A soldier should be modest as a maid: