And the generous turbulents drunken of morn,

Their battle of instincts put by,

On a Roman street cast thoughtful eye,

Along to the mounts from the bog-forest weald.

It merits a glance at our history's maps,

To see across Britain's old shaggy unshorn,

Through the Parties in strife internecine, foot

The ruler's close-reckoned direct to the mark.