A cure as certain as it gave the blow.Hunters, who follow flying game, give o'erWhen the prey's caught, hope still leads on before;We, thine own slaves, feel thy tyrannic blows.While thy tame hand's unmov'd against thy foes.On men disarm'd, how can you gallant prove ?And I was long ago disarm'd by love.Millions of dull men live, and scornful maids;We'll own love valiant when he these invades.Rome from each corner of the wide world snatch'dA laurel, or't had been to this day thatch'd;But the old soldier has his resting-place,And the good batter'd horse is turn'd to grass:The harass'd whore, who liv'd a wretch to please,Has leave to be a bawd, and take her ease.For me then, who have truly spent my blood,Love, in thy service, and so boldly stoodIn Celia's trenches, were't not wisely done,E'en to retire, and live at peace at home ?No-might I gain a godhead to disclaim