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One stride to the front, and, stroke on stroke, His curtle-axe rends the double oak. Down shower the missiles; they fall in vain; They scatter like drops from the lion's mane. He is down, he is up; that right arm! how 'Tis nerved with the strength of twenty, now! The barrier yields, it shivers, it falls. "Huzza! Saint George! to the walls! to the walls!
Were it not better, Because that I am more than common tall, That I did suit me all points like a man? A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh. A boar spear in my hand; and in my heart, Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will, We'll have a swashing and a martial outside. As many other mannish cowards have That do outface it with their semblances.
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