Classic Poem

[ The porcupine ]

Her longer head like a swines snowt doth show;
Bristles like hornes upon her forehead grow.
A fiery heat glows from her flaming eye;
Under her shaggy back the shape doth lye
As 'twere a whelpe: nature all Art hath try'd
In this small beast, so strangely fortified.
A threatning wood o're all her body stands;
And stiff with Pikes the spectled stalks in bands
Grow to the warre; while under those doth rise
An other troope, girt with alternate dyes
Of severall hue; which while a blacke doth fill
The inward space, ends in a solid quill.
That lessning by degrees, doth in a while,
Take a quick point, and sharpens to a Pile.
Nor doth her squadrons like the hedghogs stand
Fixt; but shee darts them forth, and at command
Farre off her members aimes; shot through the skie
From her shak'd side the Native Engines flie.
Sometimes retiring, Parthian like, shee'l wound
Her following foe; sometimes intrenching round
In battaile forme, marshalling all her flanks,
Shee'l clash her javelins to affright the ranks
Of her poore enemies: lineing every side
With spears, to which shee is her selfe allied.
Each part of her's a soldier [. . .]