Are shields and breastplates, at our feet a pile
Of slings and arrows, and our foreheads wreath'd
With military ensigns, not with myrtle. —Cumberland.
The same.
Know'st thou with whom thou hast to deal?
On sharpen'd swords we make our meal;
The dripping torch, snapdragon-wise,
Our burning beverage supplies;
And Cretic shafts, as sweetmeats stored,
Form the dessert upon our board,