Now from the dubious Battel's mingled heat
Let Fear look back, and stretch her hasty Wing,
Impatient to secure a base retreat:
Let the pale Coward leave his Wounded King,
For the vile privilege to breath,
To live with shame in dread of glorious Death.
In vain: for Fate has swifter Wings than fear,
She follows hard, and strikes Him in the rear,
Dying and Mad the Traytor bites the ground,
His Back transfix'd with a Dishonest Wound;
Whilst through the fiercest Troops, and thickest Press,
Virtue carries on Success;
Whilst equal Heaven guards the distinguisht brave,
And Armies cannot hurt whom Angels save.