Up starts the Souldier from his bed, He though Deaths servant is not freed, Death him cashier’d, ’cause now his help she did not need. He that ne’re knew before to yield, Or to give back, or lead the Field, Would fain now from himself have fled. He snatch’d his sword now rusted o’re, Dreadful and sparkling now no more, And thus in open streets did roar: How have I death so ill deserv’d of thee, That now thy self thou shouldst revenge on me? Have _I_ so many lives on thee bestow’d? Have I the earth so often dy’d in blood? Have I to flatter thee so many slain? And must _I_ now thy prey remain? Let me at least, if _I_ must dye, Meet in the Field some gallant enemy. Send Gods the _Persian_ troops again; No they’re a base and a degenerate train; They by our Women may be slain. Give me great Heavens some manful foes. Let me my death amidst some valiant _Grecians_ choose, Let me survive to die at _Syracuse_, Where my dear Countrey shall her Glory lose For you Great Gods! into my dying mind infuse, What miseries, what doom Must on my _Athens_ shortly come: My thoughts inspir’d presage, Slaughters and Battels to the coming Age; Oh! might _I_ die upon that glorious stage: Oh that! but then he grasp’d his sword, & death concludes his rage. XXIV.