He cut, and grieve’d, and cut, and came again;—
Pitying, and killing;—
Lamenting sorely for men’s souls,
While pretty little eyelet holes,
Clean thro’ their bodies he kept drilling:
Till palling on his Laurels, grown so thick,
(As boys pull blackberries, till they are sick,)
Homeward he bent his course, to wreath ’em;
And in his Castle, near fair Norwich town,
Glutted with glory, he sat down,