Song of Hybrias the Cretan

My wealth’s a burly spear and brand.
And a right good shield of hides untanned
Which on my arm I buckle:
With these I plough, I reap, I sow,
With these I make the sweet vintage flow.
And all around me truckle.

But your wights that take no pride to wield
A massy spear and well-made shield.
Nor joy to draw the sword —
Oh, I bring those heartless, hapless drones,
Down in a trice on their marrow-bones
To call me King and Lord.