Who, woman-like, shall fly our dreaded blows;
Yes, as a woman, who beholds a snake,
In gaudy horror, glisten thro’ the brake,
Starts trembling back, and stares with wild surprise,
Or pale thro’ fear, unconscious, panting, flies.
[[5]]Just so these foes, more tim’rous than the hind,
Shall leave their arms and only cloaths behind;
Pinch’d by each blast, by ev’ry thicket torn,
Run back to their own nation, now its scorn:
Or in the winter, when the barren wood