See the fond wife, in tears of transport drown'd,
Hugs her rough lord, and weeps o'er ev'ry wound;
Hangs on the lips, that fields of blood relate,
And smiles and trembles, at his various fate.
Near the full bowl he draws the fancied line,
And marks feign'd trenches in the flowing wine,
Then sets th' invested fort before her eyes,
And mines that whirl'd battalions to the skies;
His little list'ning progeny turn pale,
And beg again to hear the dreadful tale.