He plants his courser, where their squadrons yield To the fierce paynims, and exclaims: "Where go Your bands, and why so basely quit the field, Yielding so vilely to so vile a foe?
Behold the promised trophies, spear and shield, Spoils which your loaded churches ought to show!
What praise! what glory! that alone, and reft Of his good horse, your monarch's son is left!