My Riches are a Trusty Sword, and Spear

MY Riches are a Trusty Sword, and Spear,
And a tough Shield, which I in Battel wear;
This, as a Rampart, its Defence does lend,
Whilst with the others I my Foes offend.

With these I plow, with these my Crops I reap,
With these, for Wine, I press the Juicie Grape,
These are (unless I fall by Fickle Chance)
Machines which me to Dignities advance.

Oh thrice Beloved Target, Spear, and Sword,
That all these Heav'nly Blessings can afford!
Those who the Havock of my Weapons fear,
And tremble when of Blood, and Wounds they hear.

They are the Men which me my Treasures bring,
Erect my Trophies, stile me Lord and King:
And such, while I my Conquests spread abroad,
Fall and adore me, as they do their God.