horatio, of ideal courage vain,

was flourishing in air his father’s cane,

and, as the fumes of valour swell’d his pate,

now thought himself this hero, and now that:

“and now,” he cried, “i will achilles be;

my sword i brandish; see, the trojans flee!

now i’ll be hector, when his angry blade

a lane through heaps of slaughter’d grecians made!

and now my deeds, still, braver i’ll evince,

i am no less than edward the black prince.

give way, ye coward french!” as thus he spoke,

and aim’d in fancy a sufficient stroke

to fix the fate of crecy or poictiers

(the muse relates the hero’s fate with tears),

he struck his milk-white hand against a nail,

sees his own blood, and feels his courage fail.

ah! where is now that boasted valour flown,

that in the tented field so late was shown?

achilles weeps, great hector hangs his head,

and the black prince goes whimpering to bed.