Many have menaced you, some had a shy at you;
SALISBURY stout, and bespectacled CROSS,
Each in his season has joined in the cry at you,
Little, 'twould seem, to your damage or loss.
Still you eight-headed and lanky-limbed monster, you
Sprawl and monopolise, spread and devour.
Many assail you, but hitherto, none stir you.
Say, has the hero arrived, and the hour?
No Infant Hercules, surely, can tackle you,
Ancient abortion, with hope of success.