And wond'rous bold Sir Thomas prove'd in battle, Performing prodigies, with spear and shield; His valour, like a murrain among cattle, Was reckon'd very fatal in the field. Yet, tho' Sir Thomas had an iron fist, He was, at heart, a mild Philanthropist. Much did he grieve, when making Frenchmen die, To any inconvenience to put 'em: "It quite distress'd his feelings," he would cry, "That he must cut their throats,"--and, then he cut 'em. Thus, during many a Campaign, He cut, and grieve'd, and cut, and came again;-- Pitying, and killing;-- Lamenting sorely for men's souls, While pretty little eyelet holes, Clean thro' their bodies he kept drilling: Till palling on his Laurels, grown so thick, (As boys pull blackberries, till they are sick,) Homeward he bent his course, to wreath 'em; And in his Castle, near fair Norwich town, Glutted with glory, he sat down, In perfect solitude, beneath 'em. Now, sitting under Laurels, Heroes say, Gives grace, and dignity--and so it may-- When men have done campaigning; But, certainly, these gentlemen must own That sitting under Laurels, quite alone, Is much more dignified than entertaining. Pious AEneas, who, in his narration Of his own prowess, felt so great a charm;-- (For, tho' he feign'd great grief in the relation, He made the story longer than your arm;[4]) Pious AEneas no more pleasure knew Than did our Knight--who could he pious too-- In telling his exploits, and martial brawls: But pious _Thomas_ had no Dido near him-- No Queen--King, Lord, nor Commoner to hear him-- So he was force'd to tell them to the walls: And to his Castle walls, in solemn guise, The knight, full often, did soliloquize:-- For "Walls have ears," Sir Thomas had been told; Yet thought the tedious hours would seem much shorter, If, now and then, a tale he could unfold To ears of flesh and blood, not stone and mortar. At length, his old _Castellum_ grew so dull, That legions of Blue Devils seize'd the Knight; Megrim invested his belaurell'd skull; Spleen laid embargoes on his appetite; Till, thro' the day-time, he was haunted, wholly, By all the imps of "loathed Melancholy!"-- Heaven keep her, and her imps, for ever, from us!-- An Incubus,[5] whene'er he went to bed, Sat on his stomach, like a lump of lead, Making unseemly faces at Sir Thomas. Plagues such as these might make a Parson swear; Sir Thomas being but a Layman, Swore, very roundly, _a la militaire_, Or, rather, (from vexation) like a Drayman: Damning his Walls, out of all line and level; Sinking his drawbridges and moats; Wishing that he were cutting throats-- And they were at the devil.