Lanii Triumphantes, OR THE BUTCHER'S PRIZE BEING A description of the famous Battle, between Achilles a Butcher of Greece, and Hector a Weaver of Troy, occasioned by the Rape of a daughty Damosill yclept Helen the bright.  
— cARpere vel noli nostra, vetede tua.  Mart. 
Licenced. February 2. 1664/ 5.  
LONDON, Printed by J. B. for William Crook, at the Throw Bibles on Fleet-bridge. 1665.   

Hector & Achilles.  

THere once was sown  
Contention,  
The like was known  
By no man.   

Between Greekish rout,  
And Trojans stout,  
And all about  
A Woman.   

For there's a day,  
When Trojans play,  
Work laid away,  
Which rare is;   

This brought great joy,  
To th' Town of Troy,  
But most to th' Boy,  
called Paris.   

He had design,  
With fellows nine,  
Two pence to join  
A piece— a.   

They hire a boat,  
(Each doffes his Coat)  
And bravely rowed,  
To Greece— a.   

No haste is made,  
For time they had  
Enough, as said  
Before is.   

Now here they are,  
l' th' nick as 'twere,  
While Greeks prepare  
For Morris.   

And if one should,  
Such sport behold  
For ever, 'twould  
Not weary one.   

So blithe a Lass,  
Did never pass  
Through Greece, as was  
Maid Marrion.   

As frog leaped quick,  
Over a Dike,  
When she had like  
T' have fell in.   

As Bagpipes sound,  
On dusty ground,  
So tramples round  
Smug Hellen.   

This did so fire,  
The doughty Squire,  
he'd not desire  
To lose her.   

Rounding in ear,  
He speaks her fair,  
Yet would this gear  
Not please her.   

This stung to th' Gall,  
Now to't he'll fall,  
he'll ne'er stand shall  
I shall I.   

Quoth he I'll prove  
If you can move  
Or else by-Jove  
I'll maul ye.   

With her they fly,  
'Tis vain to cry,  
For presently  
They're gone all.   

For joy they roared,  
Now she's aboard,  
And this the word,  
Our own all.   

There's not a Greek.  
Had power to speak,  
The are vexed to break  
Of a Game.   

But they're afraid  
It will be said,  
That they are made  
A May-game.   

With Club and Stick,  
With Sword and Pike,  
The Greeks run thick  
To seaside.   

To Vessels they  
Themselves convey,  
Which vacant lay,  
There beside.   

They hoist up Sail,  
Their Oars they trail,  
Revenged they'll—  
— Be, sans doubt.   

To Trojan shore  
Now wafted o'er,  
They'll knock (they swore)  
Their brains out.   

Their Clubs they fit,  
In fist they spit,  
The next they'll hit  
That they see;   

While Trojans wink,  
For you must think,  
When they're in drink,  
They're lazy.   

Heart was at he'll,  
Till Trojans feel,  
That Greeks do deal  
So badly;   

Their Clubs they crack,  
They hold them tack,  
They bruise and thwack  
As madly.   

Bumps rise in head,  
Both parties bleed,  
‛ Kerchers they need,  
To dry 'em.   

This rueful sight,  
Did not delight  
The Trojan, height  
Old Priam.   

He had more care,  
Then all men there.  
(It is, I swear,  
No fable.)   

In Trojan Land,  
he'd great command,  
Churchwarden, and  
Constable.   

In midst he stood,  
And to the Crowd  
These words, aloud,  
Then he sent.   

Pray make an end  
Thus to contend,  
Both foe, and friend,  
Here present.   

For 'twill be sung,  
By future tongue,  
Our lives were bung  
' o'th' tenter.   

And if't be so,  
Nought else will do,  
There's only two  
Shall venture.   

Small blood be spilt;  
For they shall tilt,  
At Basket, Hilt,  
And Cudgel.   

Who best doth play,  
Theirs be the day;  
Spectators pray—  
— The judge well.   

They like this thing,  
They make a Ring.  
First Trojans bring  
Out their man.   

A precious Wight,  
Of much might,  
And t' all men's sight,  
A rare man.   

On's Lip did grow,  
Mustachio,  
No man did know  
Such ever.   

A jovial Lad,  
Wild, blithe, and mad,  
And was by trade  
A Weaver.   

He armed doth come,  
With staff of Broom,  
you'd swear him some—  
— Protector.   

O'er spot of ground,  
Thrice stalked he round,  
And three times frowned,  
Brave Hector.   

He struts not long,  
When from among,  
The Greekish throng,  
All staring.   

There did appear,  
Great Hector's Peer,  
A Warrior—  
— As daring;   

Who erst hath stood,  
Knee-deep in blood,  
'Mong all the Brood  
None such are.   

H'ath oft rubbed out,  
A dreadful bout,  
ne'er was so stout  
A Butcher.   

But not to fast,  
‛ for'rs Battle past  
His title last,  
To tell is;   

He is well known  
All o'er the Town,  
By name of boon  
Achilles.   

Horn-pipes they blow,  
Spectators know,  
The Champions now  
Will fly on.   

With open mouth,  
Th' encounter both  
As Tiger doth  
With Lyon.   

Alike they fight,  
Till for mere spite,  
A Blow did light  
On Hector.   

Feeling the weight,  
'Tis desperate,  
Trojan did straight  
Conjecture.   

He would not cry,  
(Though tear's in eye)  
He might thereby  
Lose credit.   

But, truth be said,  
A Curse is laid  
Upon his head  
That did it.   

Quoth Hector, stay,  
I will not play,  
Because you lay  
On so hard.   

Saith Greek, resign,  
A Rope be thine,  
For Helen's mine  
Poor Coward.   

Trojan would choke,  
 he'd have spoke,  
Lest th' other stroke  
Should happen;   

Last brought such pain,  
That he was feign,  
On staff to lean  
with Cap on.   

Thus have you heard  
How Trojans jeered,  
While all men feared  
Th' o'recomer.   

If you would view,  
What did ensue,  
I'll send you to  
Old Homer.   
FINIS.