King Edward

I burn to whet my faulchion on these Scots, That fly like game pursued, and ever mock Our generalship. We march,—they fly—retreat— Till night returns, and burning villages Tell where the base outlaws have fix’d their camp; Next morn beholds the ravaged plains deserted, Smoking with refuse of luxurious spoils Stolen from our wealthy yeomen; even as those Swart vagabonds that banquet on the heath, Beneath the blasted tree; and fly at dawn, Lest the fair day reveal their hellish deeds.