For the next inn he spurs amain, In haste alights, and skuds away, But time and tide for no man stay. - William Somervile

My hoarse-sounding horn
Invites thee to the chase, the sport of kings.

Hail, blooming Youth!
May all your virtues with your years improve,
Till in consummate worth you shine the pride
Of these our days, and succeeding times
A bright example.

Prostrate on earth the bleeding warrior lies,
And Isr'el's beauty on the mountains dies. How are the mighty fallen!
Hush'd be my sorrow, gently fall my tears,
Lest my sad tale should reach the alien's ears:
Bid Fame be dumb, and tremble to proclaim
In heathen Gath, or Ascalon, our shame
Lest proud Philistia, lest our haughty foe,
With impious scorn insult our solemn woe.