At every hazard let our camp be freed,
And cleanly purged of that vile harlot race,
Which are the root and cause, in very deed,
Why ye have sunk into this foul disgrace.
One drinking-cup, no more, is all ye need;
And let your lecherous couches now give place
To those wherein of yore ye slept so sound—
The homely brushwood strewn upon the ground.
Why should a soldier reek of odours sweet,
When scent of pitch and resin is the best?