Though tormented in heat,
Bearing wound upon wound,
Is ill got whence a march esteem,
Who held no hope in path it seems,
Whilst he makes stand the gate is closed,
All around him are bars like dog enclosed,
Not by fate, but by skill and chance in fight,
If this be ought that now is done so right,
Let him be spared from all misery defeat,
Now send cheer that he hear not his heart to beat,
One strike and the crowd in hysterics,
Another blow he would ne surely fix.

Here fought a player by fist and glove,
Looks right and left, below and above,
Sees not himself, within, a beast untamed,
A demon lurks for thoughts he famed,
Neither sweat nor blood can stop him now,
Though thoughts how tough now ill bestow,
He hugs floor and foe in no match resolved,
And all past bound in heart is soon absolved,
Either man too weak, or sport too cruel,
Ere the chance is lost, vict’ry be ought his fuel.

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Life, Poetry, Works
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