To rout each hostile squadron, filled with dread, Sufficed the soul and valour of the four;
Nor better arms remained for them who fled Than the sharp goads which on their heels they wore.
Happy was he with courser well bested!
By trot or amble they set little store;
And he who had no steed, here learned, dismayed, How wretched is the poor foot-soldier's trade.
