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The art of fence, and then she gave

One stroke unto her foeman brave,

That stretched him supine on the field.

For suchlike blow no targe could shield.

When Courage finds him thus adown,

Fear begs he, in God’s name, to crown

Triumph with mercy. No reply

Fear makes, except—Nay, caitiff, die!

But suddenly doth Surety call,

Pardee! ’tis you, O Fear, must fall

Whate’er you do. Times past you’d dare

Less than a coward trembling hare

A hundred times; you brave are now,

And to the devil ’tis you owe

The spirit that enabled you

’Gainst Courage this bold deed to do,

Who tourneying-lists frequenteth much,

And knows with skilful hand to clutch

The wasting sword, ne’er yet till now

Beneath your arm he quailed, I trow.

In every fight but this men see

You fly, or yield you readily.

’Twas thus that you in days of yore,

With thievish Cacus fled before

The club of mighty Hercules,

Then fled you as the heron flees

The falcon, for to Cacus lent

You wings, alone on safety bent,

When he the sacred heifers stole,

And hid them in his cavern hole,