But mockery of war, mere children’s play.
This whets their rage, to search for stones——
An Ombite wretch (by headlong strait betray’d,
And falling down i’th’ rout) is prisoner made.
Whose flesh torn off by lumps the ravenous foe
In morsels cut, to make it farther go.
His bones clean pick’d, his very bones they gnaw;
No stomach’s balk’d, because the corps is raw.
T’ had been lost time to dress him: keen desire
Supplies the want of kettle, spit, and fire.”