With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,
Whose tushes, never sheathed, he whetteth still,
Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.
"'On his bow-back he hath a battle set
Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes;
His eyes, like glow-worms, shine when he doth fret,
His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes;
Being moved he strikes whate'er is in his way,
And whom he strikes his cruel tushes slay.
"'His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm'd,