En garde, Messieurs, too long have I endured, Too long with patience borne the world’s rebuff; Now he who shoulders me shall find me rough; The weakness of an easy soul is cured. I ’ve shouted, leathern-lunged, when fame or gold Were won by others, turned to aid my friend;— Dull-pated ever,—but such follies end; Only a fool’s content, and in the cold. My doublet is in tatters, and my purse Waves in the wind, light as my lady’s fan; Only my sword is bright; with it I plan To win success, or put my sword to nurse. I wait no longer for the primal blow; Henceforth my stroke is first, I give offense; I claim no more an over-dainty sense, I brook no blocking where I plan to go. En garde, Messieurs! and if my hand is hard, Remember I ’ve been buffeted at will; I am a whit impatient, and ’t is ill To cross a hungry dog, Messieurs, en garde.
En Garde, Messieurs
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En garde, Messieurs, too long have I endured, Too long with patience borne the world’s rebuff; Now he who shoulders me shall find me rough; The weakness of an easy soul is cured. I ’ve shouted, leathern-lunged, when fame or gold Were won by others, turned to aid my friend;— Dull-pated ever,—but...