You! who could whip your own weight catulis sævis sine telo,
Get your eyes skinn’d in a twinkling, et ponite tela phaselo!”
Talia voce refert, curisque ingentibus æger,
Marshalls his ’cute little band, now panting their foe to beleaguer.
Swiftly they lower the boats, and swiftly each man at his oar is,
Excipe Britanni timidi duo, virque coloris;
(Blackskin, you know, never feels how sweet ’tis pro patriâ mori;
Ovid had him in view when he said, “Nimium ne crede colori.”)
Now swiftly they pull towards the monster, who seeing the cutter and gig nigh,
Glares at them with terrible eyes, suffectis sanguine et igni;