Poem to a babe, who was accustomed to his father’s armour

His mother could for him as cradle set
Her husband’s rusty iron corselet;
Whose jangling sound could hush her babe to rest,
That never plain’d of his uneasy nest;
Then did he dream of dreary wars at hand,
And woke, and fought, and won, ere he could stand.--HALL’S SATIRES