It Seems, Whenever We Are Idle

It seems, whenever we are idle,
We call for saddle and for bridle,
And girt and buckled from the throne
Let others' blood to cool our own.
Wars, where nor want nor danger calls,
Have hung with tatters half St. Paul's;
And some years hence this courtly fashion
Will hang with tatters half the nation.
The thirsty tribe that draws the sword
For water less than fills a gourd,
Is wiser in my humble mind
Than men who only fight for wind,
And merits more from sage and bard
Than Marlbro' or the Savoyard.