Page:Madagascar, with other poems - Davenant (1638).djvu/85

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Though, by kinde, a Turkey; whose plot that wayWas like a subtle Scowt to watch for prey;Such as is blowne about by ev'ry wind;But here's the dire mistake; this Foule (halfe blinde)At Ieff'ry pecks, and with intent to eatHim up, in stead of a large graine of Wheat:Ieff'ry (in duell nice) ne're thinks upon't,As the Turkeys hunger, but an affront.His sword he drew; a better none aliveE're got from Spanish Foe, for Shillings Five.And now, the Battaile doth begin: sound highYour Oaten Reeds, t'encourage Victorie!Strike up the wrathfull Tabor! and the Gitthern;The loud Jew's-trump! and Spirit-stirring-Cittherne!Ieff'ry the bold, as if he had o'reheardThese Instruments of Warre, his Arme uprear'd,Then cryes St. George for England! and with that wordHe mischief'd (what I pray?) nought but his sword:Though some report, he noch'd the Foes left wing;And Poets too, who faithfully did singThis Battaile in Low-Dutch, tell of a fewSmall Feathers there, which at the first charge flew

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