He rides like Mars in his triumphal car.
Conquest precedes with laurels in his hand;
Behind him Fame does on her tripos stand;
Her golden trump shrill thro' the air she sounds,
Which rends the earth, and then to heaven rebounds;
Trophies and spoils innumerable grace
This triumph, which all triumphs does deface:
Haste then, great queen! your hero thus to meet,
Who longs to lay his laurels at your feet.
Queen. Art mad, Tatlanthe? I meant no such thing.