And scarcely left them time to scrawl or spell.
Full many an acre of uncultur’d land
Fertility within its womb contains,
Full many a rugged mass of sordid sand
Conceals of virgin gold the latent grains.
Some Wolfe that ne’er shall see pale Gallia fly,
Nor in bright victory’s arms resign his breath,
Some Marlb’rough inglorious here may lie,
Some Coote unskilful in the art of death.
Th’ applause of hoary vet’rans to command,