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A Swoln-cheek'd Trumpeter, whose fatal Breath
Had oft' excited others to their Death,
While he aloft, and free from Danger, stood,
And thought himself not guilty of their Blood;
In Fight, by the prevailing Enemy,
Was made a Pris'ner, and Condemn'd to Die.
The trembling Captive pleaded Innocence,
And strongly urg'd, He had not giv'n Offence;
Since he in Blood and Wounds took no Delight,
And his Employment was, to Sound, not Fight;
Nor cou'd they sure to him impute their Harms,
Whose hurtless Trumpet was his only Arms.
To whom the Foe; This Subterfuge you use,
Do's aggravate the Guilt you wou'd excuse:
Since you, who own you are not us'd to Fight,
Do others to the bloody Field excite.