themselves in phalanx. First Bentley threw a spear with all his
force, hoping to pierce the enemy's breast; but Pallas came unseen,
and in the air took off the point, and clapped on one of lead,
which, after a dead bang against the enemy's shield, fell blunted
to the ground. Then Boyle, observing well his time, took up a
lance of wondrous length and sharpness; and, as this pair of
friends compacted, stood close side by side, he wheeled him to the
right, and, with unusual force, darted the weapon. Bentley saw his
fate approach, and flanking down his arms close to his ribs, hoping
to save his body, in went the point, passing through arm and side,
nor stopped or spent its force till it had also pierced the valiant
Wotton, who, going to sustain his dying friend, shared his fate.
As when a skilful cook has trussed a brace of woodcocks, he with
iron skewer pierces the tender sides of both, their legs and wings
close pinioned to the rib; so was this pair of friends transfixed,
till down they fell, joined in their lives, joined in their deaths;
so closely joined that Charon would mistake them both for one, and
waft them over Styx for half his fare. Farewell, beloved, loving
pair; few equals have you left behind: and happy and immortal
shall you be, if all my wit and eloquence can make you.

And now. . . .

DESUNT COETERA.



CHAPTER II - A MEDITATION UPON A BROOMSTICK.