Christopher Marlowe (26 February 1564 - 30 May 1593 / Canterbury, England)
Our Conquering Swords
Our conquering swords shall marshall us the way
We use to march upon the slaughter'd foe,
Trampling their bowels with our horses' hoofs,
Brave horses bred on the white Tartarian hills.
My camp is like to Julius Caesar's host,
That never fought but had the victory;
Nor in Pharsalia was there such hot war
As these, my followers, willingly would have.
Legions of spirits, fleeting in the air,
Direct our bullets and our weapons' points,
And make your strokes to wound the senseless light;
And when she sees our bloody colours spread,
Then Victory begins to take her flight,
Resting herself upon my milk-white tent--
But come, my lords, to weapons let us fall;
The field is ours, the Turk, his wife, and all.
Christopher Marlowe's Other Poems
- Accurs'd Be He That First Invented War
- Dialogue In Verse
- Elegies, Book One, 5
- Hero and Leander
- Hero and Leander: The First Sestiad
- Hero And Leander: The Second Sestiad
- I Must Have Wanton Poets
- In Obitum Honoratissimi Viri, Rogeri Man...
- Lament for Zenocrate
- Our Conquering Swords
- The face that launch'd a thousand ships
- The Passionate Shepherd to his Love
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