That bruises, and wounds a man's spirit shou'd touch,
With danger so little, with honour so much!
Well, they both took a dram, and return'd to the battle,
And with a fresh fury they made the swords rattle;
While Sutton's right arm was observed to bleed,
By a touch from his rival; so Jove had decreed;
Just enough for to shew that his blood was not icor,
But made up, like Figg's, of the common red-liquor.