A Speech according to Horace

Why yet, my noble hearts, they cannot say,
But we have powder still for the king's day,
And ordnance too: so much as from the Tower,
T' have wak'd, if sleeping, Spain's ambassadour,
Old Æsop Gundomar: the French can tell,
For they did see it the last tilting well,
That we have trumpets, armour, and great horse,
Lances and men, and some a breaking force.
They saw too store of feathers, and more may,
If they stay here but till St. George's day.
All ensigns of a war are not yet dead,
Nor marks of wealth so from a nation fled,
But they may see gold chains and pearl worn then,
Lent by the London dames to the Lords' men:
Withal, the dirty pains those citizens take,
To see the pride at Court, their wives do make;
And the return those thankful courtiers yield,
To have their husbands drawn forth to the field,
And coming home to tell what acts were done
Under the auspice of young Swinnerton.
What a strong fort old Pimlico had been!
How it held out! how, last, 'twas taken in!—
Well, I say, thrive, thrive, brave Artillery-yard,
Thou seed-plot of the war! that hast not spared
Powder or paper to bring up the youth
Of London, in the military truth,
These ten years day; as all may swear that look
But on thy practice, and the posture book.
He that but saw thy curious captain's drill,
Would think no more of Flushing or the Brill,
But give them over to the common ear,
For that unnecessary charge they were.
Well did thy crafty clerk and knight, Sir Hugh,
Supplant bold Panton, and brought there to view
Translated Ælian's tactics to be read,
And the Greek discipline, with the modern, shed
So in that ground, as soon it grew to be
The city-question, whether Tilly or he
Were now the greater captain? for they saw
The Berghen siege, and taking in Bredau,
So acted to the life, as Maurice might,
And Spinola have blushed at the sight.
O happy art! and wise epitome
Of bearing arms! most civil soldiery!
Thou canst draw forth thy forces, and fight dry
The battles of thy aldermanity;
Without the hazard of a drop of blood;
More than the surfeits in thee that day stood.
Go on, increas'd in virtue and in fame,
And keep the glory of the English name
Up among nations. In the stead of bold
Beauchamps and Nevills, Cliffords, Audleys old,
Insert thy Hodges, and those newer men,
As Stiles, Dike, Ditchfield, Millar, Crips, and Fen:
That keep the war, though now 't be grown more tame,
Alive yet in the noise, and still the same,
And could, if our great men would let their sons
Come to their schools, shew them the use of guns;
And there instruct the noble English heirs
In politic and military affairs.
But he that should persuade to have this done
For education of our lordlings, soon
Should he not hear of billow, wind, and storm
From the tempestuous grandlings, who'll inform
Us, in our bearing, that are thus and thus,
Born, bred, allied? what's he dare tutor us?
Are we by book-worms to be aw'd? must we
Live by their scale, that dare do nothing free?
Why are we rich or great, except to show
All license in our lives? what need we know
More than to praise a dog, or horse? or speak
The hawking language? or our day to break
With citizens? let clowns and tradesmen breed
Their sons to study arts, the laws, the creed:
We will believe like men of our own rank,
In so much land a year, or such a bank,
That turns us so much monies, at which rate
Our ancestors imposed on prince and state.
Let poor nobility be virtuous: we,
Descended in a rope of titles, be
From Guy, or Bevis, Arthur, or from whom
The herald will: our blood is now become
Past any need of virtue. Let them care,
That in the cradle of their gentry are,
To serve the state by councils and by arms:
We neither love the troubles nor the harms.
What love you then? your whore; what study? gait,
Carriage, and dressing. There is up of late
The Academy, where the gallants meet
What! to make legs? yes, and to smell most sweet:
All that they do at plays. O but first here
They learn and study; and then practise there.
But why are all these irons in the fire,
Of several makings? Helps, helps, to attire
His lordship; that is for his band, his hair
This, and that box his beauty to repair;
This other for his eye-brows: hence, away,
I may no longer on these pictures stay,
These carcases of honour; tailors' blocks
Cover'd with tissue, whose prosperity mocks
The fate of things; whilst tatter'd virtue holds
Her broken arms up to their empty moulds!