Quoth he, That man is sure to lose
That fouls his hands with dirty foes:  850
For where no honour’s to be gain’d,
’Tis thrown away in b’ing maintain’d. 
’Twas ill for us we had to do
With so dishonourable a foe: 
For though the law of arms doth bar 855
The use of venom’d shot in war,
Yet, by the nauseous smell, and noisome,
Their case-shot savours strong of poison;
And doubtless have been chew’d with teeth
Of some that had a stinking breath; 860
Else, when we put it to the push,
They have not giv’n us such a brush. 
But as those pultroons, that fling dirt,
Do but defile, but cannot hurt,
So all the honour they have won, 865
Or we have lost, is much as one,
’Twas well we made so resolute
And brave retreat without pursuit;
For if we had not, we had sped
Much worse, to be in triumph led; 870
Than which the ancients held no state
Of man’s life more unfortunate. 
But if this bold adventure e’er
Do chance to reach the widow’s ear,
It may, b’ing destin’d to assert 875
Her sex’s honour, reach her heart: 
And as such homely treats (they say)
Portend good fortune, so this may.
vespasian being daub’d with dirt,
Was destin’d to the empire for’t; 880
And from a Scavenger did come
To be a mighty Prince in Rome
And why may not this foul address
Presage in love the same success
Then let us straight, to cleanse our wounds, 885
Advance in quest of nearest ponds,
And after (as we first design’d)
Swear I’ve perform’d what she enjoin’d.