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But mighty lord, if that a worm may speak, Your van, methinks, is of a motley class, The vile refuge and garbage of the camp; Are mussulmen led on in glory's path By such as these?

No; but brave mussulmen o'er such as these May step to glory's path. Garbage, I trust, Is good enough for filling ditches up. Some thousand carcases, living and dead, Of those who first shall glut the en'my's rage, Push'd in, pell-mell, by those who press behind, Will rear for us a bridge to mount the breach Where ablest engineers had work'd in vain.

This did escape my more contracted thoughts. And here your highness stations Georgian troops: Are they sure men in such important service?

Ay, sure as death; here is my surety for them. See'st thou what warriors in the rear are plac'd, With each a cord and hatchet in his hand? Those grizly hangmen, in their canvass sleeves, Fight for me better than an armed band Of christian knights full cap-apée.—Look o'er it: Something, perchance, may have escap'd my thoughts.