Page:Boileau's Lutrin - a mock-heroic poem. In six canto's. Render'd into English verse. To which is prefix'd some account of Boileau's writings, and this translation. (IA boileauslutrinmo00boil).pdf/63

 Art thou the Man, who blam'd the tedious Day, And curs'd the lagging Sun's unkind Delay? Rise, follow us; great Deeds great Souls inflame. At this the Barber blush'd with gen'rous Shame.

Then to his well-fill'd Magazine he flies, Where many an Iron Weapon sacred lies, Till call'd to Light on some brave Enterprize. Some fashion'd by the skill'd Cornavian's Care, At Birmingham, the Shop of Mulciber: Not like those Arms of the dead-doing Kind; These fasten things which were before disjoin'd: Like an inverted Cone, of Metal strong, Sharp Pointed, and quadrangularly long; In Vulgar Speech call'd ; of these the best He chose; a Hatchet his broad Shoulders prest: A well-tooth'd Saw his brawny Body bends, Which, like a Quiver, down his back descends: Incourag'd