_Go you tame Gallants, you that have a Name, And would accounted be Cocks of the Game; That have brave Spurrs to shew for’t, and can Crow, And count all Dunghill breed, that cannot show Such painted Plumes as yours; which think’t no vice. With Cock-like-Lust to tread your Cockatrice. Tho’ Peacocks, Woodcocks, Weathercocks you be. If y’are not Fighting-Cocks y’ are not for me. I of two Feather’d Compatants will Write; And he that means to th’ Life to express their Fight, Must make his Ink the Blood which they did spill, And from their dying Wings must take his Quill._ _No sooner were the doubtful People set, The Match made up, and all that would had bet; But strait the skilful Judges of the Play Brought forth their sharp heel’d Warriors; and they Were both in Linnen Baggs, as if ’twere meet Before they Dy’d, to have their Winding sheet. Into the Pit they’re brought, and being there Upon the Stage, the_ Norfolk _Canticleer Looks stoutly at his ne’er before seen Foe, And like a Challenger began to Crow, And clap his Wings, as if he would display His Warlike Colours which were Black and Grey. Mean time the wary_ Wisbich _walks and breaths His active Body, and in Fury Wreaths His comely Crest, and often looking down, He whets his angry Beak upon the Ground. This done they meet, not like that Coward Breed Of_ Æsop’s; _these can better Fight than Feed; They scorn the Dunghill, ’tis their only Prize, To dig for Pearls within each other’s Eyes. They Fought so nimbly that ’twas hard to know, To th’ Skilful, whether they did Fight or no; If that the Blood which dy’d the fatal Floor, Had not born Witness of’t. Yet Fought they more: As if each Wound were but a Spur to Prick Their Fury forward, Lightnings not more quick, Or red, than were their Eyes: ’Twas hard to know Whether ’twas Blood or Anger made them so. I’m sure they had been out, had they not stood More safe, by being fenced in with Blood. Thus they vy’d blows; but yet_ (Alas!) _at length, Altho’ their Courage were full try’d, their Strength, And Blood began to Ebb. You that have seen A Watry Combat on the Sea between Two angry-roaring-boyling Billows, how They march, and meet, and dash their curled Brow; Swelling like Graves, as tho’ they did intend T’intomb each other e’er the Quarrel end; But when the Wind is down, blustring Weather, They are made Friends, and sweetly run together; May think these Champions such; their Blood grows low And they which leapt before, now scarce can go: Their Wings which lately at each blow they clapt, (As if they did applaud themselves) now flapt; And having lost th’ advantage of the Heel, Drunk with each others Blood, they only reel; From either Eyes such drops of Blood did fall, As if they wept them for their Funeral.