Our conquering swords shall marshall us the way <br />We use to march upon the slaughter'd foe, <br />Trampling their bowels with our horses' hoofs, <br />Brave horses bred on the white Tartarian hills. <br />My camp is like to Julius Caesar's host, <br />That never fought but had the victory; <br />Nor in Pharsalia was there such hot war <br />As these, my followers, willingly would have. <br />Legions of spirits, fleeting in the air, <br />Direct our bullets and our weapons' points, <br />And make your strokes to wound the senseless light; <br />And when she sees our bloody colours spread, <br />Then Victory begins to take her flight, <br />Resting herself upon my milk-white tent-- <br />But come, my lords, to weapons let us fall; <br />The field is ours, the Turk, his wife, and all.<br /><br />Christopher Marlowe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/our-conquering-swords/
