Hudibras

When civil dudgeon5 first grew high,
And men fell out they knew not why;
When hard words, jealousies, and fears,
Set folks together by the ears,
And made them fight, like mad or drunk,
For dame Religion as for punk;
Whose honesty they all durst swear for,
Though not a man of them knew wherefore;
When gospel-trumpeter, surrounded
With long-ear’d rout, to battle sounded,
And pulpit, drum ecclesiastick,
Was beat with fist, instead of a stick;
Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling,
And out he rode a colonelling.
A wight he was, whose very sight would
Entitle him Mirror of Knighthood;
That never bent his stubborn knee
To any thing but chivalry;
Nor put up blow, but that which laid
Right worshipful on shoulder-blade:
Chief of domestic knights and errant,
Either for cartel or for warrant;
Great on the bench, great in the saddle,
That could as well bind o’er, as swaddle:6
Mighty he was at both of these,
And styl’d of war, as well as peace.
(So some rats, of amphibious nature,
Are either for the land or water.)
But here our authors make a doubt
Whether he were more wise, or stout.
Some hold the one, and some the other;
But howsoe’er they make a pother,
The diff’rence was so small, his brain
Outweigh’d his rage but half a grain;
Which made some take him for a tool,
That knaves do work with, call’d a fool.
And offer to lay wagers that
As Montaigne, playing with his cat,7
Complains she thought him but an ass,
Much more she would Sir Hudibras;
(For that’s the name our valiant Knight
To all his challenges did write.)
But they’re mistaken very much;
’Tis plain enough he was no such.
We grant, although he had much wit,
H’ was very shy of using it;
As being loth to wear it out,
And therefore bore it not about;
Unless on holy-days, or so,
As men their best apparel do.
Beside, ’tis known he could speak Greek
As naturally as pigs squeak:
That Latin was no more difficile,
Than to a blackbird ’tis to whistle.
Being rich in both, he never scanted
His bounty unto such as wanted:
But much of either would afford
To many, that had not one word.
For Hebrew roots, although they’re found
To flourish most in barren ground,
He had such plenty, as suffic’d
To make some think him circumcis’d;8
And truly so, he was, perhaps,
Not as a proselyte, but for claps.

He was in logic a great critic,
Profoundly skill’d in analytic;9
He could distinguish, and divide
A hair ’twixt south, and south-west side;
On either which he would dispute,
Confute, change hands, and still confute.
He’d undertake to prove, by force
Of argument, a man’s no horse;
He’d prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl,
A calf an alderman, a goose a justice,
And rooks committee-men and trustees.
He’d run in debt by disputation,
And pay with ratiocination.
All this by syllogism, true
In mood and figure he would do.
For Rhetoric, he could not ope
His mouth, but out there flew a trope:
And when he happen’d to break off
I’ th’ middle of his speech, or cough,
H’ had hard words, ready to show why,
And tell what rules he did it by:
Else, when with greatest art he spoke,
You’d think he talk’d like other folk:
For all a rhetorician’s rules
Teach nothing but to name his tools.
But, when he pleas’d to show’t, his speech,
In loftiness of sound was rich;
A Babylonish dialect,10
Which learned pedants much affect.
It was a parti-colour’d dress
Of patch’d and pie-bald languages;
’Twas English cut on Greek and Latin,
Like fustian heretofore on satin;
It had an odd promiscuous tone,
As if h’ had talk’d three parts in one;
Which made some think, when he did gabble,
Th’ had heard three labourers of Babel;
Or Cerberus himself pronounce11
A leash of languages at once.
This he as volubly would vent
As if his stock would ne’er be spent;
And truly, to support that charge,
He had supplies as vast and large:
For he could coin, or counterfeit
New words, with little or no wit:
Words so debas’d and hard, no stone
Was hard enough to touch them on:
And when with hasty noise he spoke ’em,
The ignorant for current took ’em;
That had the orator, who once12
Did fill his mouth with pebble stones
When he harangu’d, but known his phrase
He would have us’d no other ways.
In Mathematicks he was greater
Than Tycho Brahe,13 or Erra Pater:
For he, by geometric scale,
Could take the size of pots of ale;
Resolve, by sines and tangents straight,
If bread or butter wanted weight,
And wisely tell what hour o’ th’ day
The clock does strike, by algebra.
Beside, he was a shrewd philosopher,
And had read ev’ry text and gloss over
Whate’er the crabbed’st author hath,
He understood b’ implicit faith:
Whatever sceptic could inquire for,14
For ev’ry why he had a wherefore;
Knew more than forty of them do,
As far as words and terms could go.
All which he understood by rote,
And, as occasion serv’d, would quote:
No matter whether right or wrong,
They might be either said or sung.
His notions fitted things so well,
That which was which he could not tell;
But oftentimes mistook the one
For th’ other, as great clerks have done.
He could reduce all things to acts,15
And knew their natures by abstracts;
Where entity and quiddity,
The ghosts of defunct bodies fly;
Where truth in person does appear,16
Like words congeal’d in northern air.17
He knew what’s what, and that’s as high
As metaphysic wit can fly.
In school-divinity as able
As he that hight, Irrefragable;18
A second Thomas, or, at once,
To name them all, another Dunce:19
Profound in all the nominal
And real ways, beyond them all;
For he a rope of sand could twist
As tough as learned Sorbonist;20
And weave fine cobwebs, fit for skull
That’s empty when the moon is full;
Such as take lodgings in a head
That’s to be let unfurnished.
He could raise scruples dark and nice,
And after solve ’em in a trice;
As if Divinity had catch’d
The itch on purpose to be scratch’d;
Or, like a mountebank, did wound
And stab herself with doubts profound,
Only to show with how small pain
The sores of Faith are cur’d again;
Although by woeful proof we find
They always leave a scar behind.
He knew the seat of Paradise,21
Could tell in what degree it lies;
And, as he was dispos’d, could prove it,
Below the moon, or else above it:
What Adam dreamt of, when his bride
Came from her closet in his side:
Whether the devil tempted her
By a High Dutch interpreter;22
If either of them had a navel:23
Who first made music malleable:24
Whether the serpent, at the fall,
Had cloven feet, or none at all.
All this without a gloss or comment,
He could unriddle in a moment,
In proper terms, such as men smatter
When they throw out, and miss the matter.

For his religion, it was fit
To match his learning and his wit:
’Twas Presbyterian true blue;
For he was of that stubborn crew
Of errant saints, whom all men grant
To be the true church militant;
Such as do build their faith upon
The holy text of pike and gun;
Decide all controversies by
Infallible artillery;
And prove their doctrine orthodox
By apostolic blows and knocks;
Call fire and sword and desolation,
A godly thorough reformation,
Which always must be carried on,
And still be doing, never done:
As if religion were intended
For nothing else but to be mended.
A sect, whose chief devotion lies
In odd perverse antipathies;
In falling out with that or this,
And finding somewhat still amiss;
More peevish, cross, and splenetick,
Than dog distract, or monkey sick.
That with more care keep holy-day
The wrong, than others the right way;
Compound for sins they are inclin’d to,
By damning those they have no mind to:
Still so perverse and opposite,
As if they worshipp’d God for spite.
The self-same thing they will abhor
One way, and long another for.
Free-will they one way disavow;
Another, nothing else allow.
All piety consists therein
In them, in other men all sin.
Rather than fail, they will decry
That which they love most tenderly;
Quarrel with minc’d-pies, and disparage
Their best and dearest friend, plum-porridge.
Fat pig and goose itself oppose,
And blaspheme custard through the nose.
Th’ apostles of this fierce religion,
Like Mahomet’s, were ass and widgeon;25
To whom our Knight, by fast instinct
Of wit and temper, was so linkt,
As if hypocrisy and nonsense
Had got th’ advowson of his conscience.

Thus was he gifted and accouter’d;
We mean on th’ inside, not the outward;
That next of all we shall discuss:
Then listen, Sirs, it follows thus:
His tawny beard was th’ equal grace
Both of his wisdom and his face;
In cut and dye so like a tile,
A sudden view it would beguile:
The upper part thereof was whey;
The nether, orange mix’d with grey.
This hairy meteor did denounce
The fall of sceptres and of crowns;
With grisly type did represent
Declining age of government;
And tell with hieroglyphick spade,
Its own grave and the state’s were made.
Like Samson’s heart-breakers, it grew
In time to make a nation rue;
Though it contributed its own fall,
To wait upon the publick downfall:
It was monastick, and did grow
In holy orders by strict vow;26
Of rule as sullen and severe
As that of rigid Cordelier.
’Twas bound to suffer persecution
And martyrdom with resolution;
T’ oppose itself against the hate
And vengeance of th’ incensed state;
In whose defiance it was worn,
Still ready to be pull’d and torn;
With red-hot irons to be tortur’d;
Revil’d, and spit upon, and martyr’d.
Maugre all which, ’twas to stand fast
As long as monarchy should last;
But when the state should hap to reel,
’Twas to submit to fatal steel,
And fall, as it was consecrate,
A sacrifice to fall of state;
Whose thread of life the fatal sisters
Did twist together with its whiskers,
And twine so close, that Time should never,
In life or death, their fortunes sever;
But with his rusty sickle mow
Both down together at a blow.
So learned Taliacotius27 from
The brawny part of porter’s bum
Cut supplemental noses, which
Would last as long as parent breech;
But when the date of nock was out,
Off dropp’d the sympathetic snout.

His back, or rather burthen, show’d,
As if it stoop’d with its own load:
For as Aeneas28 bore his sire
Upon his shoulders thro’ the fire,
Our Knight did bear no less a pack
Of his own buttocks on his back;
Which now had almost got the upper-
Hand of his head, for want of crupper.
To poise this equally, he bore
A paunch of the same bulk before;
Which still he had a special care
To keep well-cramm’d with thrifty fare;
As white-pot, butter-milk, and curds,
Such as a country-house affords;
With other vittle, which anon
We farther shall dilate upon,
When of his hose we come to treat,
The cupboard where he kept his meat.

His doublet was of sturdy buff,
And though not sword, yet cudgel-proof;
Whereby ’twas fitter for his use,
Who fear’d no blows, but such as bruise.

His breeches were of rugged woollen,
And had been at the siege of Bullen;
To old king Harry so well known,
Some writers held they were his own.
Thro’ they were lin’d with many a piece
Of ammunition bread and cheese,
And fat black-puddings, proper food
For warriors that delight in blood.
For, as we said, he always chose
To carry vittle in his hose,
That often tempted rats and mice
The ammunition to surprise:
And when he put a hand but in
The one or t’ other magazine,
They stoutly in defence on’t stood,
And from the wounded foe drew blood;
And till th’ were storm’d and beaten out,
Ne’er left the fortify’d redoubt.
And though knights-errant, as some think,
Of old did neither eat nor drink,
Because, when thorough deserts vast,
And regions desolate, they past,
Where belly-timber above ground,
Or under, was not to be found,
Unless they graz’d, there’s not one word
Of their provision on record;
Which made some confidently write,
They had no stomachs, but to fight.
’Tis false: for Arthur29 wore in hall
Round table like a farthingal,
On which, with shirt pull’d out behind,
And eke before, his good knights din’d.
Though ’twas no table, some suppose,
But a huge pair of round trunk hose;
In which he carry’d as much meat
As he and all the knights could eat,
When, laying by their swords and truncheons,
They took their breakfasts, or their nuncheons.
But let that pass at present, lest
We should forget where we digrest,
As learned authors use, to whom
We leave it, and to th’ purpose come,

His puissant sword unto his side,
Near his undaunted heart, was ty’d;
With basket-hilt, that would hold broth,
And serve for fight and dinner both.
In it he melted lead for bullets,
To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets,
To whom he bore so fell a grutch,
He ne’er gave quarter t’ any such.
The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty,30
For want of fighting, was grown rusty,
And ate unto itself, for lack
Of somebody to hew and hack.
The peaceful scabbard where it dwelt
The rancour of its edge had felt;
For of the lower end two handful
It had devour’d, ’twas so manful;
And so much scorn’d to lurk in case,
As if it durst not shew its face.
In many desperate attempts,
Of warrants, exigents, contempts,
It had appear’d with courage bolder
Than Serjeant Bum invading shoulder.
Oft had it ta’en possession,
And pris’ners too, or made them run.

This sword a dagger had t’ his page,
That was but little for his age;
And therefore waited on him so,
As dwarfs upon knights-errant do.
It was a serviceable dudgeon,
Either for fighting or for drudging.
When it had stabb’d, or broke a head,
It would scrape trenchers, or chip bread;
Toast cheese or bacon; though it were
To bait a mouse-trap, ’twould not care.
’Twould make clean shoes; and in the earth
Set leeks and onions, and so forth.
It had been ’prentice to a brewer,
Where this and more it did endure;
But left the trade, as many more
Have lately done on the same score.31

In th’ holsters, at his saddle-bow,
Two aged pistols he did stow,
Among the surplus of such meat
As in his hose he could not get.
These would inveigle rats with th’ scent,
To forage when the cocks were bent:
And sometimes catch ’em with a snap
As cleverly as th’ ablest trap.
They were upon hard duty still,
And ev’ry night stood sentinel,
To guard the magazine i’ the hose
From two-legg’d and from four-legg’d foes.

Thus clad and fortify’d, Sir Knight
From peaceful home set forth to fight.
But first with nimble, active force
He got on th’ outside of his horse;
For having but one stirrup ty’d
T’ his saddle, on the farther side,
It was so short h’ had much ado
To reach it with his desp’rate toe:
But after many strains and heaves,
He got up to the saddle-eaves,
From whence he vaulted into th’ seat,
With so much vigour, strength and heat,
That he had almost tumbled over
With his own weight, but did recover,
By laying hold on tail and mane,
Which oft he us’d instead of rein.

But now we talk of mounting steed,
Before we further do proceed,
It doth behove us to say something
Of that which bore our valiant bumpkin.
The beast was sturdy, large, and tall,
With mouth of meal, and eyes of wall.
I would say eye; for h’ had but one,
As most agree; though some say none.
He was well stay’d; and in his gait
Preserv’d a grave, majestick state.
At spur or switch no more he skipt,
Or mended pace, than Spaniard whipt;
And yet so fiery, he would bound
As if he griev’d to touch the ground:
That Caesar’s horse who, as fame goes
Had corns upon his feet and toes,32
Was not by half so tender hooft,
Nor trod upon the ground so soft.
And as that beast would kneel and stoop
(Some write) to take his rider up,
So Hudibras his (’tis well known)
Would often do to set him down.
We shall not need to say what lack
Of leather was upon his back;
For that was hidden under pad,
And breech of Knight, gall’d full as bad.
His strutting ribs on both sides show’d
Like furrows he himself had plow’d;
For underneath the skirt of pannel,
’Twixt ev’ry two there was a channel.
His draggling tail hung in the dirt,
Which on his rider he would flirt,
Still as his tender side he prick’d,
With arm’d heel, or with unarm’d, kick’d;
For Hudibras wore but one spur;
As wisely knowing, could he stir
To active trot one side of ’s horse,
The other would not hang an arse.

A squire he had, whose name was Ralph,
That in th’ adventure went his half:
Though writers, for more stately tone,
Do call him Ralpho; ’tis all one;
And when we can with metre safe,
We’ll call him so; if not, plain Ralph.
(For rhyme the rudder is of verses,
With which like ships they steer their courses.)
An equal stock of wit and valour
He had laid in; by birth a tailor.
The mighty Tyrian queen, that gain’d
With subtle shreds a tract of land,33
Did leave it with a castle fair
To his great ancestor, her heir.
From him descended cross-legg’d knights,
Fam’d for their faith, and warlike fights
Against the bloody cannibal,
Whom they destroy’d both great and small.
This sturdy Squire he had, as well
As the bold Trojan knight, seen Hell;34
Not with a counterfeited pass
Of golden bough, but true gold-lace.
His knowledge was not far behind
The Knight’s, but of another kind,
And he another way came by ’t:
Some call it Gifts, and some New-Light;
A liberal art that costs no pains
Of study, industry, or brains.
His wit was sent him for a token,
But in the carriage crack’d and broken.
Like commendation nine-pence crook’d,
With⁠—To and from my love⁠—it look’d.
He ne’er consider’d it, as loth
To look a gift-horse in the mouth;
And very wisely would lay forth
No more upon it than ’twas worth.
But as he got it freely, so
He spent it frank and freely too.
For Saints themselves will sometimes be
Of gifts that cost them nothing, free.
By means of this, with hem and cough,
Prolongers to enlighten’d stuff,
He could deep mysteries unriddle
As easily as thread a needle.
For as of vagabonds we say,
That they are ne’er beside their way;
Whate’er men speak by this New Light,
Still they are sure to be i’ th’ right.
’Tis a dark-lantern of the spirit,
Which none see by but those that bear it:
A light that falls down from on high,
For spiritual trades to cozen by:
An ignis fatuus, that bewitches
And leads men into pools and ditches,
To make them dip themselves, and sound
For Christendom in dirty pond;
To dive like wild-fowl for salvation,
And fish to catch regeneration.
This light inspires and plays upon
The nose of saint like bag-pipe drone,
And speaks through hollow empty soul,
As through a trunk, or whisp’ring hole,
Such language as no mortal ear
But spirit’al eaves-droppers can hear:
So Phoebus, or some friendly muse,
Into small poets’ song infuse,
Which they at second-hand rehearse,
Thro’ reed or bag-pipe, verse for verse.

Thus Ralph became infallible
As three or four-legg’d oracle,35
The ancient cup, or modern chair;
Spoke truth point-blank, though unaware.

For mystick learning, wondrous able
In magick Talisman and Cabal,36
Whose primitive tradition reaches
As far as Adam’s first green breeches:37
Deep sighted in intelligences,
Ideas, atoms, influences;
And much of terra incognita,
Th’ intelligible world, could say:38
A deep occult Philosopher,
As learn’d as the wild Irish are,39
Or Sir Agrippa; for profound40
And solid lying much renown’d.
He Anthroposophus, and Floud,
And Jacob Behmen understood:41
Knew many an amulet and charm,
That would do neither good nor harm:
In Rosy-crucian lore as learned,
As he that Vere adeptus earned.42
He understood the speech of birds
As well as they themselves do words;
Cou’d tell what subtlest parrots mean,
That speak, and think contrary clean:
What member ’tis of whom they talk,
When they cry Rope, and Walk, knave, walk.
He’d extract numbers out of matter,
And keep them in a glass, like water;
Of sov’reign pow’r to make men wise;
For drop’d in blear thick-sighted eyes,
They’d make them see in darkest night,
Like owls, though purblind in the light.
By help of these (as he profess’d)
He had First Matter seen undress’d:
He took her naked all alone,
Before one rag of form was on.
The Chaos too he had descry’d,
And seen quite thro’, or else he ly’d:
Not that of paste-board which men shew
For groats, at fair of Barthol’mew;
But its great grandsire, first o’ the name,
Whence that and Reformation came;
Both cousin-germans, and right able
T’ inveigle and draw in the rabble.
But Reformation was, some say,
O’ th’ younger house to Puppet-play.
He could foretel whats’ever was
By consequence to come to pass;
As death of great men, alterations,
Diseases, battles, inundations,
All this, without th’ eclipse o’ th’ sun,
Or dreadful comet, he hath done,
By inward light; away as good,
And easy to be understood;
But with more lucky hit than those
That use to make the stars depose,
Like knights o’ th’ post, and falsely charge
Upon themselves what others forge:
As if they were consenting to
All mischiefs in the world men do:
Or, like the Devil, did tempt and sway ’em
To rogueries, and then betray ’em.
They’ll search a planet’s house, to know
Who broke and robb’d a house below:
Examine Venus, and the Moon,
Who stole a thimble or a spoon;
And though they nothing will confess,
Yet by their very looks can guess,
And tell what guilty aspect bodes,
Who stole, and who receiv’d the goods.
They’ll question Mars, and by his look,
Detect who ’twas that nimm’d a cloke;
Make Mercury confess, and ’peach
Those thieves which he himself did teach.
They’ll find, i’ th’ physiognomies
O’ th’ planets, all men’s destinies;
Like him that took the doctor’s bill,
And swallow’d it instead o’ th’ pill:
Cast the nativity o’ th’ question,
And from positions to be guess’d on,
As sure as if they knew the moment
Of natives birth, tell what will come on’t.
They’ll feel the pulses of the stars,
To find out agues, coughs, catarrhs;
And tell what crisis does divine
The rot in sheep, or mange in swine
In men, what gives or cures the itch;
What makes them cuckolds, poor or rich;
What gains or loses, hangs or saves;
What makes men great, what fools or knaves,
But not what wise; for only of those
The stars (they say) cannot dispose,
No more than can the astrologians.
There they say right, and like true Trojans.
This Ralpho knew, and therefore took
The other course, of which we spoke.

Thus was the accomplish’d Squire endu’d
With gifts and knowledge, per’lous shrewd.
Never did trusty Squire with Knight,
Or Knight with Squire, e’er jump more right.
Their arms and equipage did fit,
As well as virtues, parts, and wit.
Their valours too were of a rate;
And out they sally’d at the gate.
Few miles on horseback had they jogged,
But Fortune unto them turn’d dogged;
For they a sad adventure met,
Of which anon we mean to treat;
But ere we venture to unfold
Achievements so resolv’d and bold,
We should as learned poets use,
Invoke the assistance of some muse:
However, critics count it sillier
Than jugglers talking to familiar.
We think ’tis no great matter which;
They’re all alike; yet we shall pitch
On one that fits our purpose most
Whom therefore thus do we accost:

Thou that with ale, or viler liquors,
Did’st inspire Withers, Pryn, and Vickars,43
And force them, though it was in spite
Of nature and their stars, to write;
Who, as we find in sullen writs,
And cross-grain’d works of modern wits,
With vanity, opinion, want,
The wonder of the ignorant,
The praises of the author, penn’d
B’ himself, or wit-ensuring friend;
The itch of picture in the front,
With bays and wicked rhyme upon’t;
All that is left o’ th’ forked hill,
To make men scribble without skill;
Canst make a poet spite of fate,
And teach all people to translate,
Though out of languages in which
They understand no part of speech;
Assist me but this once, I ’mplore,
And I shall trouble thee no more.

In western clime there is a town,
To those that dwell therein well known;
Therefore there needs no more be said here;
We unto them refer our reader;
For brevity is very good,
When w’ are, or are not, understood.
To this town people did repair,
On days of market, or of fair,
And, to crack’d fiddle, and hoarse tabor,
In merriment did drudge and labour.
But now a sport more formidable
Had rak’d together village rabble;
’Twas an old way of recreating,
Which learned butchers call bear-baiting:
A bold advent’rous exercise,
With ancient heroes in high prize:
For authors do affirm it came
From Isthmian or Nemean game:
Others derive it from the bear
That’s fix’d in northern hemisphere,
And round about the pole does make
A circle like a bear at stake,
That at the chain’s end wheels about,
And overturns the rabble-rout.
For after solemn proclamation,
In the bear’s name, (as is the fashion,
According to the law of arms,
To keep men from inglorious harms,)
That none presume to come so near
As forty foot of stake of bear,
If any yet be so fool-hardy,
T’ expose themselves to vain jeopardy,
If they come wounded off, and lame,
No honour’s got by such a maim;
Altho’ the bear gain much, b’ing bound
In honour to make good his ground,
When he’s engag’d, and takes no notice,
If any press upon him, who ’tis;
But let’s them know, at their own cost,
That he intends to keep his post.
This to prevent, and other harms,
Which always wait on feats of arms
(For in the hurry of a fray
’Tis hard to keep out of harm’s way,)
Thither the Knight his course did steer,
To keep the peace ’twixt dog and bear;
As he believ’d he was bound to do
In conscience, and commission too;
And therefore thus bespoke the Squire:

We that are wisely mounted higher44
Than constables in curule wit,
When on tribunal bench we sit,
Like speculators should foresee,
From Pharos of authority,
Portended mischiefs farther then
Low Proletarian tything-men:
And therefore being inform’d by bruit,
That dog and bear are to dispute;
For so of late men fighting name,
Because they often prove the same
(For where the first does hap to be,
The last does coincidere;)
Quantum in nobis, have thought good,
To save th’ expense of Christian blood,
And try if we, by mediation
Of treaty and accommodation,
Can end the quarrel and compose
The bloody duel without blows.
Are not our liberties, our lives,
The laws, religion, and our wives,
Enough at once to lie at stake
For Cov’nant and the Cause’s sake?
But in that quarrel dogs and bears,
As well as we, must venture theirs
This feud, by Jesuits invented,
By evil counsel is fomented;
There is a Machiavelian plot,
(Though every nare olfact is not,)
A deep design in’t, to divide
The well-affected that confide,
By setting brother against brother,
To claw and curry one another.
Have we not enemies, plus satis,
That, cane et angue pejus, hate us?
And shall we turn our fangs and claws
Upon our own selves, without cause?
That some occult design doth lie
In bloody cynarctomachy,45
Is plain enough to him that knows
How saints lead brothers by the nose.
I wish myself a pseudo-prophet,
But sure some mischief will come of it;
Unless by providential wit,
Or force, we averruncate it.46
For what design, what interest,
Can beast have to encounter beast?
They fight for no espoused cause,
Frail privilege, fundamental laws,
Not for a thorough reformation,
Nor covenant, nor protestation,
Nor liberty of consciences,
Nor Lords and Commons’ ordinances;
Nor for the church, nor for church-lands,
To get them in their own no-hands;
Nor evil counsellors to bring
To justice that seduce the king;
Nor for the worship of us men,
Though we have done as much for them.
Th’ Egyptians worshipp’d dogs, and for
Their faith made internecine war.
Others ador’d a rat, and some
For that church suffer’d martyrdom.
The Indians fought for the truth
Of th’ elephant and monkey’s tooth,47
And many, to defend that faith,
Fought it out, mordicus, to death.
But no beast ever was so slight,
For man, as for his God, to fight.
They have more wit, alas! and know
Themselves and us better than so.
But we, who only do infuse
The rage in them like Boute-feus;48
’Tis our example that instils
In them th’ infection of our ills.
For, as some late philosophers.
Have well observ’d, beasts that converse
With man, take after him, as hogs
Get pigs all th’ year, and bitches dogs.
Just so, by our example, cattle
Learn to give one another battle.
We read, in Nero’s time, the heathen,
When they destroy’d the Christian brethren,
Did sew them in the skins of bears,
And then set dogs about their ears:
From thence, no doubt, th’ invention came
Of this lewd antichristian game.

To this, quoth Ralpho, Verily
The point seems very plain to me.
It is an antichristian game,
Unlawful both in thing and name.
First, for the name: the word, bear-baiting
Is carnal, and of man’s creating:
For certainly there’s no such word
In all the Scripture on record;
Therefore unlawful, and a sin;
And so is (secondly) the thing.
A vile assembly ’tis, that can
No more be prov’d by Scripture than
Provincial, classic, national;
Mere human creature-cobwebs all.
Thirdly, it is idolatrous;
For when men run a whoring thus
With their inventions, whatsoe’er
The thing be, whether dog or bear,
It is idolatrous and pagan,
No less than worshipping of Dagon.

Quoth Hudibras, I smell a rat:
Ralpho, thou dost prevaricate;
For though the thesis which thou lay’st
Be true ad amussim, as thou say’st;
(For that bear-baiting should appear
Jure divino, lawfuller
Than synods are, thou dost deny,
Totidem verbis: so do I;)
Yet there’s a fallacy in this;
For if by sly homoeosis,
Tussis pro crepitu, an art
Under a cough to slur a fart,
Thou wouldst sophistically imply
Both are unlawful, I deny.

And I (quoth Ralpho) do not doubt
But bear-baiting may be made out,
In gospel-times, as lawful as is
Provincial or parochial classis;
And that both are so near of kin,
And like in all, as well as sin,
That put them in a bag, and shake ’em,
Yourself o’ th’ sudden would mistake ’em,
And not know which is which, unless
You measure by their wickedness:
For ’tis not hard t’imagine whether
O’ th’ two is worst; though I name neither.

Quoth Hudibras, Thou offer’st much,
But art not able to keep touch.
Mira de lente, as ’tis i’ th’ adage,
Id est, to make a leek a cabbage;
Thou wilt at best but such a bull,
Or shear-swine, all cry and no wool;
For what can synods have at all
With bear that’s analogical?
Or what relation has debating
Of church-affairs with bear-baiting?
A just comparison still is
Of things ejusdem generis;
And then what genius rightly doth
Include and comprehend them both?
If animal, both of us may
As justly pass for bears as they;
For we are animals no less,
Altho’ of different specieses.
But, Ralpho, this is no fit place
Nor time to argue out the case:
For now the field is not far off,
Where we must give the world a proof
Of deeds, not words, and such as suit
Another manner of dispute;
A controversy that affords
Actions for arguments, not words;
Which we must manage at a rate
Of prowess and conduct adequate
To what our place and fame doth promise,
And all the godly expect from us.
Nor shall they be deceiv’d, unless
We’re slurr’d and outed by success;
Success, the mark no mortal wit,
Or surest hand, can always hit:
For whatsoe’er we perpetrate,
We do but row, we’re steer’d by Fate,
Which in success oft disinherits,
For spurious causes, noblest merits.
Great actions are not always true sons
Of great and mighty resolutions;
Nor do th’ boldest attempts bring forth
Events still equal to their worth;
But sometimes fail, and in their stead
Fortune and cowardice succeed.
Yet we have no great cause to doubt;
Our actions still have borne us out;
Which, though they’re known to be so ample,
We need not copy from example.
We’re not the only persons durst
Attempt this province, nor the first.
In northern clime a val’rous knight
Did whilom kill his bear in fight,
And wound a fiddler; we have both
Of these the objects of our wroth,
And equal fame and glory from
Th’ attempt of victory to come.
’Tis sung, there is a valiant Mamaluke49
In foreign land, yclep’d⁠—
To whom we have been oft compar’d
For person, parts, address, and beard;
Both equally reputed stout,
And in the same cause both have fought;
He oft in such attempts as these
Came off with glory and success;
Nor will we fail in th’ execution,
For want of equal resolution.
Honour is like a widow, won50
With brisk attempt and putting on;
With ent’ring manfully, and urging;
Not slow approaches, like a virgin.

’Tis said, as erst the Phrygian knight,
So ours with rusty steel did smite
His Trojan horse, and just as much
He mended pace upon the touch;
But from his empty stomach groan’d
Just as that hollow beast did sound,
And angry answer’d from behind,
With brandish’d tail and blast of wind.
So have I seen, with armed heel,
A wight bestride a common-weal;
While still the more he kick’d and spurr’d
The less the sullen jade had stirr’d.

There was an ancient sage philosopher,
That had read Alexander Ross over,
And swore the world, as he could prove,
Was made of fighting and of love:
Just so Romances are, for what else
Is in them all, but love and battles?
O’ th’ first of these we’ve no great matter
To treat of, but a world o’ th’ latter;
In which to do the injur’d right
We mean, in what concerns just fight.
Certes our authors are to blame,
For to make some well-sounding name
A pattern fit for modern knights
To copy out in frays and fights;
Like those that a whole street do raze
To build a palace in the place.
They never care how many others
They kill, without regard of mothers,
Or wives, or children, so they can
Make up some fierce, dead-doing man,
Compos’d of many ingredient valours,
Just like the manhood of nine tailors.
So a wild Tartar, when he spies
A man that’s handsome, valiant, wise,
If he can kill him, thinks t’ inherit
His wit, his beauty, and his spirit;
As if just so much he enjoy’d
As in another is destroy’d.
For when a giant’s slain in fight,
And mow’d o’erthwart, or cleft downright,
It is a heavy case, no doubt,
A man should have his brains beat out
Because he’s tall, and has large bones;
As men kill beavers for their stones.
But as for our part, we shall tell
The naked truth of what befel;
And as an equal friend to both
The Knight and Bear, but more to troth,
With neither faction shall take part,
But give to each his due desert;
And never coin a formal lie on’t,
To make the Knight o’ercome the giant.
This b’ing profest, we’ve hopes enough,
And now go on where we left off.

They rode; but authors having not
Determin’d whether pace or trot,
(That is to say, whether tollutation,
As they do term’t, or succussation,)51
We leave it, and go on, as now
Suppose they did, no matter how;
Yet some from subtle hints have got
Mysterious light, it was a trot:
But let that pass: they now begun
To spur their living engines on.
For as whipp’d tops, and bandy’d balls,
The learned hold, are animals;
So horses they affirm to be
Mere engines made by geometry;
And were invented first from engines,
As Indian Britons were from Penguins.52
So let them be; and, as I was saying,
They their live engines ply’d, not staying
Until they reach’d the fatal champaign,
Which th’ enemy did then encamp on;
The dire Pharsalian plain, where battle53
Was to be wag’d ’twixt puissant cattle
And fierce auxiliary men,
That came to aid their brethren,
Who now began to take the field,
As Knight from ridge of steed beheld.
For as our modern wits behold,
Mounted a pick-back on the old,
Much further oft; much further he,
Rais’d on his aged beast could see;
Yet not sufficient to descry
All postures of the enemy;
Wherefore he bids the Squire ride further,
T’ observe their numbers, and their order;
That when their motions he had known,
He might know how to fit his own.
Meanwhile he stopp’d his willing steed,
To fit himself for martial deed.
Both kinds of metal he prepar’d,
Either to give blows, or to ward:
Courage and steel, both of great force,
Prepar’d for better or for worse.
His death-charg’d pistols he did fit well,
Drawn out from life-preserving vittle.
These being prim’d, with force he labour’d
To free ’s sword from retentive scabbard;
And, after many a painful pluck,
From rusty durance he bail’d tuck.
Then shook himself, to see that prowess
In scabbard of his arms sat loose;
And, rais’d upon his desp’rate foot,
On stirrup-side he gaz’d about,
Portending blood, like blazing star,
The beacon of approaching war.
Ralpho rode on with no less speed
Than Hugo in the forest did;
But far more in returning made;
For now the foe he had survey’d,
Rang’d as to him they did appear,
With van, main battle, wings, and rear.
I’ the head of all this warlike rabble,
Crowdero march’d, expert and able.
Instead of trumpet and of drum,
That makes the warrior’s stomach come,
Whose noise whets valour sharp, like beer
By thunder turn’d to vinegar,
(For if a trumpet sound, or drum beat,
Who has not a month’s mind to combat?)
A squeaking engine he apply’d
Unto his neck, on north-east side,
Just where the hangman does dispose,
To special friends, the knot of noose:
For ’tis great grace, when statesmen straight
Dispatch a friend, let others wait.
His warped ear hung o’er the strings,
Which was but souse to chitterlings:
For guts, some write, ere they are sodden,
Are fit for music, or for pudden;
From whence men borrow ev’ry kind
Of minstrelsy by string or wind.
His grisly beard was long and thick,
With which he strung his fiddle-stick;
For he to horse-tail scorn’d to owe,
For what on his own chin did grow.
Chiron,54 the four-legg’d bard, had both
A beard and tail of his own growth;
And yet by authors ’tis averr’d,
He made use only of his beard.
In Staffordshire, where virtuous worth
Does raise the minstrelsy, not birth;55
Where bulls do choose the boldest king,
And ruler, o’er the men of string;
(As once in Persia, ’tis said,
Kings were proclaim’d by a horse that neigh’d;)
He bravely venturing at a crown,
By chance of war was beaten down,
And wounded sore. His leg then broke,
Had got a deputy of oak:
For when a shin in fight is cropp’d,
The knee with one of timber’s propp’d,
Esteem’d more honourable than the other,
And takes place, though the younger brother.

Next march’d brave Orsin, famous for
Wise conduct, and success in war:
A skilful leader, stout, severe,
Now marshal to the champion bear.
With truncheon, tipp’d with iron head,
The warrior to the lists he led;
With solemn march and stately pace,
But far more grave and solemn face;
Grave as the Emperor of Pegu56
Or Spanish Potentate, Don Diego.
This leader was of knowledge great,
Either for charge or for retreat.
He knew when to fall on pell-mell;
To fall back and retreat as well.
So lawyers, lest the bear defendant,
And plaintiff dog, should make an end on’t,
Do stave and tail with writs of error,
Reverse of judgment, and demurrer,
To let them breathe a while, and then
Cry whoop, and set them on agen.
As Romulus a wolf did rear,
So he was dry-nurs’d by a bear,
That fed him with the purchas’d prey
Of many a fierce and bloody fray;
Bred up, where discipline most rare is,
In military Garden Paris.57
For soldiers heretofore did grow
In gardens just as weeds do now,
Until some splay-foot politicians
T’ Apollo offer’d up petitions
For licensing a new invention
They’d found out of an antique engine,
To root out all the weeds that grow
In public gardens at a blow,
And leave th’ herbs standing. Quoth Sir Sun,
My friends, that is not to be done.
Not done! quoth Statesmen; yes, an’t please ye,
When it’s once known, you’ll say ’tis easy.
Why then let’s know it, quoth Apollo.
We’ll beat a drum, and they’ll all follow.
A drum! (quoth Phoebus;) troth, that’s true;
A pretty invention, quaint and new.
But though of voice and instrument
We are the undoubted president,
We such loud music don’t profess:
The devil’s master of that office,
Where it must pass, if ’t be a drum;
He’ll sign it with Cler. Parl. Dom. Com.
To him apply yourselves, and he
Will soon dispatch you for his fee.
They did so; but it prov’d so ill,
Th’ had better let ’em grow there still.
But to resume what we discoursing
Were on before, that is, stout Orsin:
That which so oft, by sundry writers,
Has been applied t’ almost all fighters,
More justly may b’ ascrib’d to this
Than any other warrior, (viz.)
None ever acted both parts bolder,
Both of a chieftain and a soldier.
He was of great descent, and high
For splendour and antiquity;
And from celestial origine
Deriv’d himself in a right line:
Not as the ancient heroes did,
Who, that their base births might be hid,
(Knowing they were of doubtful gender,
And that they came in at a windore,)
Made Jupiter himself, and others
O’ th’ gods, gallants to their own mothers,
To get on them a race of champions
(Of which old Homer first made lampoons.)
Arctophylax, in northern sphere,
Was his undoubted ancestor:
From him his great forefathers came,
And in all ages bore his name.
Learned he was in med’c’nal lore;
For by his side a pouch he wore,
Replete with strange hermetic powder,
That wounds nine miles point-blank would solder,
By skilful chemist, with great cost,
Extracted from a rotten post;
But of a heav’nlier influence
Than that which mountebanks dispense;
Though by Promethean fire made,58
As they do quack that drive that trade.
For as when slovens do amiss
At others doors, by stool or piss,
The learned write, a red-hot spit
B’ing prudently apply’d to it,
Will convey mischief from the dung
Unto the part that did the wrong,
So this did healing; and as sure
As that did mischief, this could cure.

Thus virtuous Orsin was endu’d
With learning, conduct, fortitude,
Incomparable: and as the prince
Of poets, Homer, sung long since,
A skilful leech is better far
Than half an hundred men of war,
So he appear’d; and by his skill,
No less than dint of sword, could kill.

The gallant Bruin march’d next him,
With visage formidably grim,
And rugged as a Saracen,
Or Turk of Mahomet’s own kin;
Clad in a mantle della guerre
Of rough impenetrable fur;
And in his nose, like Indian king,
He wore, for ornament, a ring;
About his neck a threefold gorget,
As rough as trebled leathern target;
Armed, as heralds, cant, and langued;
Or, as the vulgar say, sharp-fanged.
For as the teeth in beasts of prey
Are swords, with which they fight in fray;
So swords, in men of war, are teeth,
Which they do eat their vittle with.
He was by birth, some authors write,
A Russian; some, a Muscovite;
And ’mong the Cossacks had been bred,59
Of whom we in diurnals read,
That serve to fill up pages here,
As with their bodies ditches there.
Scrimansky was his cousin-german,
With whom he serv’d, and fed on vermin;
And when these fail’d, he’d suck his claws,
And quarter himself upon his paws.
And though his countrymen, the Huns,60
Did stew their meat between their bums
And th’ horses backs o’er which they straddle,
And ev’ry man eat up his saddle;
He was not half so nice as they,
But eat it raw when ’t came in’s way.
He had trac’d countries far and near,
More than Le Blanc, the traveller;
Who writes, he spous’d in India,
Of noble house, a lady gay,61
And got on her a race of worthies,
As stout as any upon earth is.
Full many a fight for him between
Talgol and Orsin oft had been
Each striving to deserve the crown
Of a sav’d citizen; the one
To guard his bear; the other fought
To aid his dog; both made more stout
By sev’ral spurs of neighbourhood,
Church-fellow-membership, and blood;
But Talgol, mortal foe to cows,
Never got aught of him but blows;
Blows hard and heavy, such as he
Had lent, repaid with usury.

Yet Talgol was of courage stout,
And vanquish’d oft’ner than he fought:
Inur’d to labour, sweat and toil,
And like a champion shone with oil.
Right many a widow his keen blade,
And many fatherless had made.
He many a boar and huge dun-cow
Did, like another Guy, o’erthrow;
But Guy with him in fight compar’d,
Had like the boar or dun-cow far’d.
With greater troops of sheep h’ had fought
Than Ajax or bold Don Quixote:
And many a serpent of fell kind,
With wings before and stings behind,
Subdu’d, as poets say, long agone,
Bold Sir George, St. George, did the dragon.
Nor engine, nor device polemic,
Disease, nor doctor epidemic,
Though stor’d with deletory med’cines,
(Which whosoever took is dead since,)
E’er sent so vast a colony
To both the underworlds as he:
For he was of that noble trade
That demi-gods and heroes made,
Slaughter and knocking on the head,
The trade to which they all were bred;
And is, like others, glorious when
’Tis great and large, but base if mean:
The former rides in triumph for it,
The latter in a two-wheel’d chariot,
For daring to profane a thing
So sacred with vile bungling.

Next these the brave Magnano came;
Magnano, great in martial fame.
Yet when with Orsin he wag’d fight,
’Tis sung, he got but little by ’t.
Yet he was fierce as forest boar,
Whose spoils upon his back he wore,
As thick as Ajax’ seven-fold shield,
Which o’er his brazen arms he held:
But brass was feeble to resist
The fury of his armed fist;
Nor could the hardest ir’n hold out
Against his blows, but they would through’t.

In magic he was deeply read
As he that made the brazen head;
Profoundly skill’d in the black art,
As English Merlin for his heart;62
But far more skilful in the spheres
Than he was at the sieve and shears.
He could transform himself in colour
As like the devil as a collier;
As like as hypocrites in show
Are to true saints, or crow to crow.
Of warlike engines he was author,
Devis’d for quick dispatch of slaughter:
The cannon, blunderbuss, and saker,
He was th’ inventor of, and maker:
The trumpet, and the kettle-drum,
Did both from his invention come.
He was the first that e’er did teach
To make, and how to stop, a breach.
A lance he bore with iron pike;
Th’ one half would thrust, the other strike;
And when their forces he had join’d,
He scorn’d to turn his parts behind.

He Trulla lov’d; Trulla, more bright
Than burnish’d armour of her knight:
A bold virago, stout and tall
As Joan of France, or English Mall,63
Thro’ perils both of wind and limb,
Thro’ thick and thin, she follow’d him,
In ev’ry adventure h’ undertook,
And never him or it forsook:
At breach of wall, or hedge surprise,
She shar’d i’ th’ hazard and the prize:
At beating quarters up, or forage,
Behav’d herself with matchless courage;
And laid about in fight more busily
Than the Amazonian dame Penthesile.64

And though some critics here cry shame,
And say our authors are to blame,
That (spite of all philosophers,
Who hold no females stout but bears,
And heretofore did so abhor
That women should pretend to war,
They would not suffer the stoutest dame
To swear by Hercules’s name)65
Make feeble ladies in their works,
To fight like termagants and Turks;
To lay their native arms aside,
Their modesty, and ride astride;
To run a-tilt at men, and wield
Their naked tools in open field;
As stout Armida, bold Thalestris,66
And she that would have been the mistress
Of Gondibert;67 but he had grace,
And rather took a country lass;
They say, ’tis false, without all sense,
But of pernicious consequence
To government, which they suppose
Can never be upheld in prose;
Strip Nature naked to the skin,
You’ll find about her no such thing.
It may be so; yet what we tell
Of Trulla that’s improbable,
Shall be depos’d by those who’ve seen’t,
Or, what’s as good, produc’d in print:
And if they will not take our word,
We’ll prove it true upon record.

The upright Cerdon next advanc’t,
Of all his race the valiant’st:
Cerdon the Great, renown’d in song,
Like Herc’les, for repair of wrong:
He rais’d the low and fortify’d
The weak against the strongest side:
Ill has he read, that never hit
On him in Muses’ deathless writ.
He had a weapon keen and fierce,
That through a bull-hide shield would pierce,
And cut it in a thousand pieces,
Though tougher than the Knight of Greece his,
With whom his black-thumb’d ancestor
Was comrade in the ten years war:
For when the restless Greeks sat down
So many years before Troy town,
And were renown’d, as Homer writes,
For well sol’d boots no less than fights,
They ow’d that glory only to
His ancestor, that made them so.
Fast friend he was to Reformation,
Until ’twas worn quite out of fashion.
Next rectifier of wry law,
And would make three to cure one flaw.
Learned he was, and could take note,
Transcribe, collect, translate, and quote.
But preaching was his chiefest talent,
Or argument, in which b’ing valiant,
He us’d to lay about and stickle,
Like ram or bull, at conventicle:
For disputants, like rams and bulls,
Do fight with arms that spring from skulls.

Last Colon came, bold man of war,
Destin’d to blows by fatal star;
Right expert in command of horse,
But cruel, and without remorse.
That which of Centaur long ago
Was said, and has been wrested to
Some other knights, was true of this;
He and his horse were of a piece.
One spirit did inform them both;
The self-same vigour, fury, wroth;
Yet he was much the rougher part,
And always had a harder heart:
Although his horse had been of those
That fed on man’s flesh, as fame goes.
Strange food for horse! and yet, alas!
It may be true, for flesh is grass.
Sturdy he was, and no less able
Than Hercules to clean a stable;
As great a drover, and as great
A critic too, in hog or neat.
He ripp’d the womb up of his mother,
Dame Tellus, ’cause she wanted fother
And provender wherewith to feed
Himself, and his less cruel steed.
It was a question, whether he
Or ’s horse were of a family
More worshipful: ’till antiquaries
(After th’ had almost por’d out their eyes)
Did very learnedly decide
The business on the horse’s side;
And prov’d not only horse, but cows,
Nay, pigs, were of the elder house:
For beasts, when man was but a piece
Of earth himself, did th’ earth possess.

These worthies were the chief that led
The combatants, each in the head
Of his command, with arms and rage,
Ready and longing to engage.
The numerous rabble was drawn out
Of sev’ral counties round about,
From villages remote, and shires,
Of east and western hemispheres:
From foreign parishes and regions,
Of different manners, speech, religions,
Came men and mastiffs; some to fight
For fame and honour, some for sight.
And now the field of death, the lists,
Were enter’d by antagonists,
And blood was ready to be broach’d,
When Hudibras in haste approach’d,
With Squire and weapons, to attack ’em;
But first thus from his horse bespake ’em:

What rage, O citizens! what fury
Doth you to these dire actions hurry?
What oestrum, what phrenetic mood,68
Makes you thus lavish of your blood,
While the proud Vies your trophies boast
And unreveng’d walks⁠—ghost?
What towns, what garrisons might you
With hazard of this blood subdue,
Which now y’ are bent to throw away
In vain, untriumphable fray!
Shall saints in civil bloodshed wallow
Of saints, and let the Cause lie fallow?
The Cause for which we fought and swore
So boldly, shall we now give o’er?
Then, because quarrels still are seen
With oaths and swearings to begin,
The solemn League and Covenant
Will seem a mere God-dam-me rant;
And we, that took it, and have fought,
As lewd as drunkards that fall out.
For as we make war for the king
Against himself, the self-same thing,
Some will not stick to swear, we do
For God and for religion too:
For if bear-baiting we allow,
What good can Reformation do?
The blood and treasure that’s laid out,
Is thrown away, and goes for nought.
Are these the fruits o’ th’ Protestation,
The Prototype of Reformation,
Which all the Saints, and some, since martyrs,
Wore in their hats like wedding garters,69
When ’twas resolv’d by either House
Six Members quarrel to espouse?70
Did they for this draw down the rabble,
With zeal and noises formidable,
And make all cries about the town
Join throats to cry the bishops down?
Who having round begirt the palace
(As once a month they do the gallows,)
As members gave the sign about,
Set up their throats with hideous shout.
When tinkers bawl’d aloud to settle
Church discipline, for patching kettle:
No sow-gelder did blow his horn
To geld a cat, but cry’d Reform.
The oyster-women lock’d their fish up,
And trudg’d away, to cry, No bishop.
The mouse-trap men laid save-alls by,
And ’gainst ev’l counsellors did cry.
Bothers left old clothes in the lurch,
And fell to turn and patch the Church.
Some cry’d the Covenant instead
Of pudding-pies and ginger-bread;
And some for brooms, old boots and shoes,
Bawl’d out to purge the Commons’ House.
Instead of kitchen-stuff, some cry,
A gospel-preaching ministry;
And some, for old suits, coats, or cloak,
No Surplices nor Service-Book.
A strange harmonious inclination
Of all degrees to Reformation.
And is this all? Is this the end
To which these carr’ings on did tend?
Hath public faith, like a young heir,
For this ta’en up all sorts of ware,
And run int’ every tradesman’s book,
Till both turn’d bankrupts, and are broke?
Did Saints for this bring in their plate,
And crowd as if they came too late?
For when they thought the Cause had need on’t,
Happy was he that could be rid on’t.
Did they coin piss-pots, bowls, and flagons,
Int’ officers of horse and dragoons;
And into pikes and musqueteers
Stamp beakers, cups, and porringers?
A thimble, bodkin, and a spoon,
Did start up living men as soon
As in the furnace they were thrown,
Just like the dragon’s teeth b’ing sown.
Then was the Cause of gold and plate,
The brethren’s off’rings, consecrate,
Like th’ Hebrew calf, and down before it
The saints fell prostrate, to adore it
So say the wicked⁠—and will you
Make that sarcasmus scandal true,71
By running after dogs and bears,
Beasts more unclean than calves or steers?
Have pow’rful preachers ply’d their tongues,
And laid themselves out and their lungs;
Us’d all means, both direct and sinister,
I’ th’ pow’r of gospel-preaching minister?
Have they invented tones to win
The women, and make them draw in
The men, as Indians with a female
Tame elephant inveigle the male?
Have they told Prov’dence what it must do,
Whom to avoid, and whom to trust to?
Discover’d th’ enemy’s design,
And which way best to countermine?
Prescrib’d what ways it hath to work,
Or it will ne’er advance the kirk?
Told it the news o’ th’ last express,
And after good or bad success,
Made prayers, not so like petitions
As overtures and propositions
(Such as the army did present
To their creator, th’ Parliament,)
In which they freely will confess
They will not, cannot, acquiesce,
Unless the work be carry’d on
In the same way they have begun,
By setting church and common-weal
All on a flame, bright as their zeal,
On which the saints were all agog,
And all this for a bear and dog?
The parliament drew up petitions
To ’tself, and sent them, like commissions,
To well-affected persons down,
In ev’ry city and great town,
With pow’r to levy horse and men,
Only to bring them back agen;
For this did many, many a mile,
Ride manfully in rank and file,
With papers in their hats, that show’d
As if they to the pillory rode.
Have all these courses, these efforts,
Been try’d by people of all sorts,
Velis et remis, omnibus nervis,
And all t’ advance the Cause’s service?
And shall all now be thrown, away
In petulant intestine fray?
Shall we that in the Cov’nant swore,
Each man of us to run before
Another, still in Reformation,
Give dogs and bears a dispensation?
How will Dissenting Brethren relish it?
What will malignants say? videlicet,
That each man swore to do his best,
To damn and perjure all the rest!
And bid the Devil take the hin’most,
Which at this race is like to win most.
They’ll say our bus’ness, to reform
The church and state, is but a worm;
For to subscribe, unsight, unseen,
To an unknown church-discipline,
What is it else, but before-hand
T’ engage, and after understand?
For when we swore to carry on
The present Reformation,
According to the purest mode
Of Churches best reform’d abroad,
What did we else, but make a vow
To do we know not what, nor how?
For no three of us will agree,
Where or what churches these should be;
And is indeed the self-same case
With theirs that swore et caeteras:72
Or the French League, in which men vow’d
To fight to the last drop of blood.73
These slanders will be thrown upon
The cause and work we carry on,
If we permit men to run headlong
T’ exorbitances fit for bedlam
Rather than gospel-walking times,
When slightest sins are greatest crimes.
But we the matter so shall handle,
As to remove that odious scandal,
In name of King and Parliament,
I charge ye all no more foment
This feud, but keep the peace between
Your brethren and your countrymen;
And to those places straight repair
Where your respective dwellings are.
But to that purpose first surrender
The Fiddler, as the prime offender,
Th’ incendiary vile, that is chief
Author and engineer of mischief;
That makes division between friends,
For profane and malignant ends.
He, and that engine of vile noise,
On which illegally he plays,
Shall (dictum factum) both be brought
To condign punishment, as they ought.
This must be done; and I would fain see
Mortal so sturdy as to gainsay:
For then I’ll take another course,
And soon reduce you all by force.
This said, he clapp’d his hand on sword,
To shew he meant to keep his word.

But Talgol, who had long supprest
Inflamed wrath in glowing breast,
Which now began to rage and burn as
Implacably as flame in furnace,
Thus answer’d him:⁠—Thou vermin wretched
As e’er in measled pork was hatched;
Thou tail of worship, that dost grow
On rump of justice as of cow;
How dar’st thou, with that sullen luggage
O’ th’ self, old ir’n, and other baggage,
With which thy steed of bones and leather
Has broke his wind in halting hither;
How durst th’, I say, adventure thus
T’ oppose thy lumber against us?
Could thine impertinence find out
To work t’ employ itself about,
Where thou, secure from wooden blow,
Thy busy vanity might’st show?
Was no dispute a-foot between
The caterwauling brethren?
No subtle question rais’d among
Those out-o’-their wits, and those i’ th’ wrong?
No prize between those combatants
O’ th’ times, the land and water saints;
Where thou might’st strickle without hazard
Of outrage to thy hide and mazzard;
And not for want of bus’ness come
To us to be so troublesome,
To interrupt our better sort
Of disputants, and spoil our sport?
Was there no felony, no bawd,
Cut-purse, no burglary abroad;
No stolen pig, nor plunder’d goose,
To tie thee up from breaking loose?
No ale unlicens’d, broken hedge,
For which thou statute might’st alledge,
To keep thee busy from foul evil,
And shame due to thee from the devil?
Did no committee sit, where he
Might cut out journey-work for thee?
And set th’ a task, with subornation,
To stitch up sale and sequestration;
To cheat, with holiness and zeal,
All parties, and the common weal?
Much better had it been for thee,
H’ had kept thee where th’ art us’d to be;
Or sent th’ on bus’ness any whither,
So he had never brought thee hither.
But if th’ hast brain enough in skull
To keep itself in lodging whole,
And not provoke the rage of stones
And cudgels to thy hide and bones
Tremble, and vanish, while thou may’st,
Which I’ll not promise if thou stay’st.
At this the Knight grew high in wroth,
And lifting hands and eyes up both,
Three times he smote on stomach stout,
From whence at length these words broke out:

Was I for this entitled Sir,
And girt with trusty sword and spur,
For fame and honour to wage battle,
Thus to be brav’d by foe to cattle?
Not all that pride that makes thee swell
As big as thou dost blown-up veal;
Nor all thy tricks and sleights to cheat,
And sell thy carrion for good meat;
Not all thy magic to repair
Decay’d old age in tough lean ware;
Make nat’ral appear thy work,
And stop the gangrene in stale pork;
Not all that force that makes thee proud,
Because by bullock ne’er withstood;
Though arm’d with all thy cleavers, knives,
And axes made to hew down lives,
Shall save or help thee to evade
The hand of Justice, or this blade,
Which I, her sword-bearer, do carry,
For civil deed and military.
Nor shall those words of venom base,
Which thou hast from their native place,
Thy stomach pump’d to fling on me,
Go unreveng’d, though I am free:
Thou down the same throat shalt devour ’em,
Like tainted beef, and pay dear for ’em.
Nor shall it e’er be said, that wight
With gantlet blue, and bases white,
And round blunt truncheon by his side,
So great a man at arms defy’d
With words far bitterer than wormwood,
That would in Job or Grizel stir mood.
Dogs with their tongues their wounds do heal;
But men with hands, as thou shalt feel.

This said, with hasty rage he snatch’d
His gun-shot, that in holsters watch’d;
And bending cock, he levell’d full
Against th’ outside of Talgol’s skull;
Vowing that he should ne’er stir further,
Nor henceforth cow nor bullock murther.
But Pallas came in shape of rust,
And ’twixt the spring and hammer thrust
Her Gorgon shield, which made the cock
Stand stiff, as ’twere transform’d to stock.
Meanwhile fierce Talgol, gath’ring might,
With rugged truncheon charg’d the Knight;
But he with petronel upheav’d,
Instead of shield, the blow receiv’d.
The gun recoil’d, as well it might,
Not us’d to such a kind of fight,
And shrunk from its great master’s gripe,
Knock’d down and stunn’d by mortal stripe.
Then Hudibras, with furious haste,
Drew out his sword; yet not so fast,
But Talgol first, with hardy thwack,
Twice bruis’d his head, and twice his back.
But when his nut-brown sword was out,
With stomach huge he laid about,
Imprinting many a wound upon
His mortal foe, the truncheon.
The trusty cudgel did oppose
Itself against dead-doing blows,
To guard its leader from fell bane,
And then reveng’d itself again.
And though the sword (some understood)
In force had much the odds of wood,
’Twas nothing so; both sides were balanc’d
So equal, none knew which was valiant’st:
For wood with Honour b’ing engag’d,
Is so implacably enrag’d,
Though iron hew and mangle sore,
Wood wounds and bruises honour more.
And now both knights were out of breath,
Tir’d in the hot pursuit of death;
While all the rest amaz’d stood still,
Expecting which should take or kill.
This Hudibras observ’d; and fretting
Conquest should be so long a getting,
He drew up all his force into
One body, and that into one blow.
But Talgol wisely avoided it
By cunning sleight; for had it hit,
The upper part of him the blow
Had slit as sure as that below.

Meanwhile th’ incomparable Colon,
To aid his friend, began to fall on.
Him Ralph encounter’d, and straight grew
A dismal combat ’twixt them two:
Th’ one arm’d with metal, th’ other with wood;
This fit for bruise, and that for blood.
With many a stiff thwack, many a bang,
Hard crab-tree and old iron rang;
While none that saw them could divine
To which side conquest would incline,
Until Magnano, who did envy
That two should with so many men vie,
By subtle stratagem of brain,
Perform’d what force could ne’er attain;
For he, by foul hap, having found
Where thistles grew on barren ground,
In haste he drew his weapon out,
And having cropp’d them from the root,
He clapp’d them underneath the tail
Of steed, with pricks as sharp as nail.
The angry beast did straight resent
The wrong done to his fundament;
Began to kick, and fling, and wince,
As if h’ had been beside his sense,
Striving to disengage from thistle,
That gall’d him sorely under his tail:
Instead of which, he threw the pack
Of Squire and baggage from his back;
And blund’ring still with smarting rump,
He gave the Knight’s steed such a thump
As made him reel. The Knight did stoop,
And sat on further side aslope.
This Talgol viewing, who had now
By sleight escap’d the fatal blow,
He rally’d, and again fell to’t;
For catching foe by nearer foot,
He lifted with such might and strength,
As would have hurl’d him thrice his length,
And dash’d his brains (if any) out:
But Mars, that still protects the stout,
In pudding-time came to his aid,
And under him the bear convey’d;
The bear, upon whose soft fur-gown
The Knight with all his weight fell down.
The friendly rug preserv’d the ground,
And headlong Knight, from bruise or wound:
Like feather-bed betwixt a wall
And heavy brunt of cannon-ball.
As Sancho on a blanket fell,
And had no hurt, ours far’d as well
In body; though his mighty spirit,
B’ing heavy, did not so well bear it.
The bear was in a greater fright,
Beat down and worsted by the Knight.
He roar’d, and rag’d, and flung about,
To shake off bondage from his snout.
His wrath inflam’d, boil’d o’er, and from
His jaws of death he threw the foam:
Fury in stranger postures threw him,
And more than herald ever drew him.
He tore the earth which he had sav’d
From squelch of Knight, and storm’d and rav’d,
And vext the more because the harms
He felt were ’gainst the law of arms:
For men he always took to be
His friends, and dogs the enemy;
Who never so much hurt had done him,
As his own side did falling on him.
It griev’d him to the guts that they
For whom h’ had fought so many a fray,
And serv’d with loss of blood so long,
Shou’d offer such inhuman wrong;
Wrong of unsoldier-like condition:
For which he flung down his commission;
And laid about him, till his nose
From thrall of ring and cord broke loose.
Soon as he felt himself enlarg’d,
Through thickest of his foes he charg’d,
And made way through th’ amazed crew;
Some he o’erran, and some o’erthrew,
But took none; for by hasty flight
He strove t’ escape pursuit of Knight;
From whom he fled with as much haste
And dread as he the rabble chas’d.
In haste he fled, and so did they;
Each and his fear a several way.

Crowdero only kept the field;
Not stirring from the place he held,
Though beaten down and wounded sore,
I’ th’ fiddle, and a leg that bore
One side of him; not that of bone,
But much its better, th’ wooden one.
He spying Hudibras lie strow’d
Upon the ground, like log of wood,
With fright of fall, supposed wound,
And loss of urine, in a swound,
In haste he snatch’d the wooden limb,
That hurt i’ th’ ankle lay by him,
And fitting it for sudden fight,
Straight drew it up t’ attack the Knight;
For getting up on stump and huckle,
He with the foe began to buckle;
Vowing to be reveng’d for breach
Of crowd and skin upon the wretch,
Sole author of all detriment
He and his fiddle underwent.

But Ralpho (who had now begun
T’ adventure resurrection
From heavy squelch, and had got up
Upon his legs, with sprained crup)
Looking about, beheld pernicion
Approaching Knight from fell musician.
He snatch’d his whinyard up, that fled
When he was falling off his steed,
(As rats do from a falling house,)
To hide itself from rage of blows;
And, wing’d with speed and fury, flew
To rescue Knight from black and blue;
Which, e’er he could achieve, his sconce
The leg encounter’d twice and once;
And now ’twas rais’d to smite agen,
When Ralpho thrust himself between.
He took the blow upon his arm,
To shield the Knight from further harm;
And, joining wrath with force, bestow’d
On th’ wooden member such a load,
That down it fell, and with it bore
Crowdero, whom it propp’d before.
To him the Squire right nimbly run,
And setting conquering foot upon
His trunk, thus spoke: What desp’rate frenzy
Made thee (thou whelp of sin!) to fancy
Thyself, and all that coward rabble,
T’ encounter us in battle able?
How durst th’, I say, oppose thy curship
’Gainst arms, authority, and worship?
And Hudibras or me provoke,
Though all thy limbs, were heart of oak,
And th’ other half of thee as good
To bear out blows, as that of wood?
Could not the whipping-post prevail,
With all its rhet’ric, nor the jail,
To keep from flaying scourge thy skin,
And ankle free from iron gin?
Which now thou shalt⁠—But first our care
Must see how Hudibras doth fare.
This said, he gently rais’d the Knight,
And set him on his bum upright.
To rouse him from lethargic dump,
He tweak’d his nose; with gentle thump
Knock’d on his breast, as if ’t had been
To raise the spirits lodg’d within.
They, waken’d with the noise, did fly
From inward room to window eye;
And gently op’ning lid, the casement,
Look’d out, but yet with some amazement.
This gladded Ralpho much to see,
Who thus bespoke the Knight: quoth he,
Tweaking his nose, You are, great Sir,
A self-denying conqueror;
As high, victorious, and great,
As e’er fought for the churches yet,
If you will give yourself but leave
To make out what y’ already have;
That’s victory. The foe, for dread
Of your nine-worthiness, is fled;
All, save Crowdero, for whose sake
You did th’ espous’d cause undertake;
And he lies pris’ner at your feet,
To be dispos’d as you think meet;
Either for life, or death, or sale,
The gallows, or perpetual jail;
For one wink of your powerful eye
Must sentence him to live or die.
His fiddle is your proper purchase,
Won in the service of the churches;
And by your doom must be allow’d
To be, or be no more, a crowd.
For though success did not confer
Just title on the conqueror;
Though dispensations were not strong
Conclusions, whether right or wrong;
Although out-goings did confirm,
And owning were but a mere term;
Yet as the wicked have no right
To th’ creature, though usurp’d by might,
The property is in the saint,
From whom th’ injuriously detain ’t;
Of him they hold their luxuries,
Their dogs, their horses, whores, and dice,
Their riots, revels, masks, delights,
Pimps, buffoons, fiddlers, parasites;
All which the saints have title to,
And ought t’ enjoy, if th’ had their due.
What we take from them is no more
Than what was our’s by right before;
For we are their true landlords still,
And they our tenants but at will.
At this the Knight began to rouse,
And by degrees grow valorous,
He star’d about, and seeing none
Of all his foes remain but one,
He snatch’d his weapon, that lay near him,
And from the ground began to rear him;
Vowing to make Crowdero pay
For all the rest that ran away.
But Ralpho now, in colder blood,
His fury mildly thus withstood:
Great Sir, quoth he, your mighty spirit
Is rais’d too high: this slave does merit
To be the hangman’s business, sooner
Than from your hand to have the honour
Of his destruction. I, that am
A nothingness in deed and name
Did scorn to hurt his forfeit carcass,
Or ill intreat his fiddle or case:
Will you, great Sir, that glory blot
In cold blood which you gain’d in hot?
Will you employ your conqu’ring sword
To break a fiddle and your word?
For though I fought, and overcame,
And quarter gave, ’twas in your name,
For great commanders only own
What’s prosperous by the soldier done.
To save, where you have pow’r to kill,
Argues your pow’r above your will;
And that your will and pow’r have less
Than both might have of selfishness.
This pow’r which, now alive, with dread
He trembles at, if he were dead,
Would no more keep the slave in awe,
Than if you were a knight of straw:
For death would then be his conqueror;
Not you, and free him from that terror.
If danger from his life accrue,
Or honour from his death, to you,
’Twere policy, and honour too,
To do as you resolv’d to do;
But, Sir, ’twould wrong your valour much,
To say it needs or fears a crutch.
Great conquerors greater glory gain
By foes in triumph led, than slain:
The laurels that adorn their brows
Are pull’d from living not dead boughs,
And living foes: the greatest fame
Of cripple slain can be but lame.
One half of him’s already slain,
The other is not worth your pain;
Th’ honour can but on one side light,
As worship did, when y’ were dubb’d knight.
Wherefore I think it better far
To keep him prisoner of war,
And let him fast in bonds abide,
At court of justice to be try’d;
Where, if he appear so bold and crafty,
There may be danger in his safety.
If any member there dislike
His face, or to his beard have pique;
Or if his death will save or yield
Revenge or fright, it is reveal’d,
Though he has quarter, ne’er the less
Y’ have power to hang him when you please.
This has been often done by some
Of our great conqu’rors, you know whom;
And has by most of us been held
Wise Justice, and to some reveal’d:
For words and promises, that yoke
The conqueror, are quickly broke;
Like Samson’s cuffs, though by his own
Direction and advice put on.
For if we should fight for the Cause
By rules of military laws,
And only do what they call just,
The Cause would quickly fall to dust.
This we among ourselves may speak;
But to the wicked, or the weak,
We must be cautious to declare
Perfection-truths, such as these are.

This said, the high outrageous mettle
Of Knight began to cool and settle.
He lik’d the Squire’s advice, and soon
Resolv’d to see the business done;
And therefore charg’d him first to bind
Crowdero’s hands on rump behind,
And to its former place and use
The wooden member to reduce;
But force it take an oath before,
Ne’er to bear arms against him more.

Ralpho dispatched with speedy haste,
And having ty’d Crowdero fast,
He gave Sir Knight the end of cord,
To lead the captive of his sword
In triumph, whilst the steeds he caught,
And them to further service brought.
The Squire in state rode on before,
And on his nut-brown whinyard bore
The trophy-fiddle and the case,
Leaning on shoulder like a mace.
The Knight himself did after ride,
Leading Crowdero by his side;
And tow’d him, if he lagg’d behind,
Like boat against the tide and wind.
Thus grave and solemn they march’d on
Until quite thro’ the town th’ had gone;
At further end of which there stands
An ancient castle, that commands
Th’ adjacent parts: in all the fabric
You shall not see one stone nor a brick:
But all of wood; by pow’rful spell
Of magic made impregnable.
There’s neither iron-bar nor gate,
Portcullis, chain, nor bolt, nor grate,
And yet men durance there abide,
In dungeon scarce three inches wide;
With roof so low, that under it
They never stand, but lie or sit;
And yet so foul, that whoso ’s in,
Is to the middle-leg in prison;
In circle magical confin’d,
With walls of subtle air and wind,
Which none are able to break thorough,
Until they’re freed by head of borough.
Thither arriv’d, th’ advent’rous Knight
And bold Squire from their steeds alight
At th’ outward wall, near which there stands
A bastile, built to imprison hands;
By strange enchantment made to fetter
The lesser parts and free the greater;
For though the body may creep through,
The hands in grate are fast enough:
And when a circle ’bout the wrist
Is made by beadle exorcist,
The body feels the spur and switch,
As if ’twere ridden post by witch
At twenty miles an hour pace,
And yet ne’er stirs out of the place.
On top of this there is a spire,
On which Sir Knight first bids the Squire
The fiddle and its spoils, the case,
In manner of a trophy place.
That done, they ope the trap-door gate,
And let Crowdero down thereat;
Crowdero making doleful face,
Like hermit poor in pensive place.
To dungeon they the wretch commit,
And the survivor of his feet:
But th’ other, that had broke the peace
And head of knighthood, they release;
Though a delinquent false and forged,
Yet, being a stranger he’s enlarged,
While his comrade, that did no hurt,
Is clapp’d up fast in prison for’t.
So Justice, while she winks at crimes,
Stumbles on innocence sometimes.

Ah me! what perils do environ
The man that meddles with cold iron;
What plaguy mischiefs and mishaps
Do dog him still with after-claps!
For though dame Fortune seem to smile
And leer upon him for a while,
She’ll after show him, in the nick
Of all his glories, a dog-trick.
This any man may sing or say,
I’ th’ ditty call’d, What if a Day?
For Hudibras, who thought h’ had won
The field, as certain as a gun;
And having routed the whole troop,
With victory was cock-a-hoop;
Thinking h’ had done enough to purchase
Thanksgiving-day among the churches,
Wherein his mettle, and brave worth,
Might be explain’d by Holder-forth,
And register’d, by fame eternal,
In deathless pages of diurnal;
Found in few minutes, to his cost,
He did but count without his host;
And that a turnstile is more certain
Than, in events of war, dame Fortune.

For now the late faint-hearted rout,
O’erthrown, and scatter’d round about,
Chas’d by the horror of their fear,
From bloody fray of Knight and Bear
(All but the dogs, who, in pursuit
Of the Knight’s victory, stood to’t,
And most ignobly fought to get
The honour of his blood and sweat.)
Seeing the coast was free and clear
O’ th’ conquer’d and the conqueror,
Took heart again, and fac’d about,
As if they meant to stand it out:
For by this time the routed Bear,
Attack’d by th’ enemy i’ th’ rear,
Finding their number grew too great
For him to make a safe retreat,
Like a bold chieftain, fac’d about;
But wisely doubting to hold out,
Gave way to fortune, and with haste
Fac’d the proud foe, and fled, and fac’d;
Retiring still, until he found
H’ had got the advantage of the ground;
And then as valiantly made head
To check the foe, and forthwith fled;
Leaving no art untry’d, nor trick
Of warrior stout and politic,
Until, in spite of hot pursuit,
He gain’d a pass, to hold dispute
On better terms, and stop the course
Of the proud foe. With all his force
He bravely charg’d, and for a while
Forc’d their whole body to recoil;
But still their numbers so increas’d,
He found himself at length oppress’d;
And all evasions so uncertain,
To save himself for better fortune,
That he resolv’d, rather than yield,
To die with honour in the field,
And sell his hide and carcase at
A price as high and desperate
As e’er he could. This resolution
He forthwith put in execution,
And bravely threw himself among
The enemy i’ th’ greatest throng;
But what could single valour do
Against so numerous a foe?
Yet much he did, indeed too much
To be believ’d, where th’ odds were such.
But one against a multitude
Is more than mortal can make good:
For while one party he oppos’d,
His rear was suddenly enclosed;
And no room left him for retreat,
Or fight against a foe so great.
For now the mastiffs, charging home,
To blows and handy gripes were come:
While manfully himself he bore,
And setting his right foot before,
He rais’d himself, to show how tall
His person was above them all.
This equal shame and envy stirr’d
In th’ enemy, that one should beard
So many warriors, and so stout,
As he had done, and stav’d it out,
Disdaining to lay down his arms,
And yield on honourable terms.
Enraged thus, some in the rear
Attack’d him, and some ev’ry where,
Till down he fell; yet falling fought,
And, being down, still laid about;
As Widdrington, in doleful dumps,
Is said to light upon his stumps.

But all, alas! had been in vain,
And he inevitably slain,
If Trulla and Cerdon, in the nick,
To rescue him had not been quick;
For Trulla, who was light of foot
As shafts which long-field Parthians shoot,
(But not so light as to be borne
Upon the ears of standing corn,
Or trip it o’er the water quicker
Than witches, when their staves they liquor,
As some report,) was got among
The foremost of the martial throng:
There pitying the vanquish’d bear,
She call’d to Cerdon, who stood near,
Viewing the bloody fight; to whom,
Shall we (quoth she) stand still hum-drum,
And see stout Bruin all alone,
By numbers basely overthrown?
Such feats already h’ has achiev’d,
In story not to be believed;
And ’twould to us be shame enough,
Not to attempt to fetch him off.
I would (quoth he) venture a limb
To second thee, and rescue him;
But then we must about it straight,
Or else our aid will come too late.
Quarter he scorns, he is so stout,
And therefore cannot long hold out.
This said, they wav’d their weapons round
About their heads, to clear the ground;
And joining forces, laid about
So fiercely, that th’ amazed rout
Turn’d tail again, and straight begun,
As if the Devil drove, to run.
Meanwhile th’ approach’d th’ place where Bruin
Was now engag’d to mortal ruin.
The conqu’ring foe they soon assail’d;
First Trulla stav’d, and Cerdon tail’d,74
Until their mastiffs loos’d their hold:
And yet, alas! do what they could,
The worsted Bear came off with store
Of bloody wounds, but all before:
For as Achilles, dipt in pond,
Was anabaptiz’d free from wound,
Made proof against dead-doing steel
All over, but the Pagan heel;
So did our champion’s arms defend
All of him, but the other end,
His head and ears, which, in the martial
Encounter, lost a leathern parcel:
For as an Austrian archduke once
Had one ear (which in ducatoons
Is half the coin) in battle par’d
Close to his head, so Bruin far’d;
But tugg’d and pull’d on th’ other side,
Like scriv’ner newly crucify’d;
Or like the late corrected leathern
Ears of the circumcised brethren.75
But gentle Trulla into th’ ring
He wore in’s nose, convey’d a string,
With which she march’d before, and led
The warrior to a grassy bed.
As authors write, in a cool shade,
Which eglantine and roses made;
Close by a softly murm’ring stream,
Where lovers us’d to loll and dream.
There leaving him to his repose,
Secured from pursuit of foes,
And wanting nothing but a song,
And a well-tun’d theorbo hung
Upon a bough, to ease the pain
His tugg’d ears suffer’d, with a strain,
They both drew up, to march in quest
Of his great leader and the rest.

For Orsin (who was more renown’d
For stout maintaining of his ground
In standing fight, than for pursuit,
As being not so quick of foot)
Was not long able to keep pace
With others that pursu’d the chase;
But found himself left far behind,
Both out of heart and out of wind:
Griev’d to behold his bear pursu’d
So basely by a multitude;
And like to fall, not by the prowess,
But numbers of his coward foes.
He rag’d and kept as heavy a coil as
Stout Hercules for loss of Hylas;
Forcing the valleys to repeat
The accents of his sad regret.
He beat his breast, and tore his hair,
For loss of his dear crony bear;
That Echo, from the hollow ground,
His doleful wailings did resound
More wistfully, by many times,
Than in small poets splay-foot rhymes
That make her, in their rueful stories,
To answer to int’rogatories,
And most unconscionably depose
To things of which she nothing knows;
And when she has said all she can say,
’Tis wrested to the lover’s fancy.
Quoth he, O whither, wicked Bruin
Art thou fled? to my⁠—Echo, Ruin?
I thought th’ hadst scorn’d to budge a step
For fear. Quoth Echo, Marry guep.
Am not I here to take thy part?
Then what has quelled thy stubborn heart?
Have these bones rattled, and this head
So often in thy quarrel bled?
Nor did I ever winch or grudge it,
For thy dear sake. Quoth she, Mum budget.
Think’st thou ’twill not be laid i’ th’ dish
Thou turn’dst thy back? Quoth Echo, Pish.
To run from those th’ hast overcome
Thus cowardly? Quoth Echo, Mum.
But what a vengeance makes thee fly
From me, too, as thine enemy?
Or if thou hast no thought of me,
Nor what I have endur’d for thee,
Yet shame and honour might prevail
To keep thee thus from turning tail:
For who would grudge to spend his blood in
His honour’s cause? Quoth she, A puddin.
This said, his grief to anger turn’d,
Which in his manly stomach burn’d;
Thirst of revenge, and wrath, in place
Of sorrow, now began to blaze.
He vow’d the authors of his woe
Should equal vengeance undergo;
And with their bones and flesh pay dear
For what he suffer’d, and his bear.
This b’ing resolv’d, with equal speed
And rage he hasted to proceed
To action straight; and giving o’er
To search for Bruin any more,
He went in quest of Hudibras,
To find him out where’er he was;
And, if he were above ground, vow’d
He’d ferret him, lurk where he would.

But scarce had he a furlong on
This resolute adventure gone,
When he encounter’d with that crew
Whom Hudibras did late subdue.
Honour, revenge, contempt, and shame,
Did equally their breasts inflame.
’Mong these the fierce Magnano was,
And Talgol, foe to Hudibras;
Cerdon and Colon, warriors stout,
As resolute, as ever fought;
Whom furious Orsin thus bespoke:
Shall we (quoth he) thus basely brook
The vile affront that paltry ass,
And feeble scoundrel Hudibras,
With that more paltry ragamuffin,
Ralpho, with vapouring and huffing,
Have put upon us like tame cattle,
As if th’ had routed us in battle!
For my part, it shall ne’er be said,
I for the washing gave my head:
Nor did I turn my back for fear
O’ th’ rascals, but loss of my bear,
Which now I’m like to undergo;
For whether those fell wounds, or no,
He has receiv’d in fight, are mortal,
Is more than all my skill can foretell
Nor do I know what is become
Of him, more than the pope of Rome.
But if I can but find them out
That caus’d it (as I shall, no doubt,
Where’er th’ in hugger-mugger lurk)
I’ll make them rue their handy-work;
And wish that they had rather dar’d
To pull the devil by the beard.

Quoth Cerdon, Noble Orsin, th’ hast
Great reason to do as thou say’st,
And so has ev’ry body here,
As well as thou hast or thy bear.
Others may do as they see good;
But if this twig be made of wood
That will hold tack, I’ll make the fur
Fly ’bout the ears of that old cur;
And th’ other mongrel vermin, Ralph,
That brav’d us all in his behalf.
Thy bear is safe, and out of peril,
Though lugg’d indeed, and wounded very ill;
Myself and Trulla made a shift
To help him out at a dead lift;
And having brought him bravely off,
Have left him where he’s safe enough:
There let him rest; for if we stay,
The slaves may hap to get away.

This said, they all engag’d to join
Their forces in the same design;
And forthwith put themselves in search
Of Hudibras upon their march.
Where leave we awhile, to tell
What the victorious knight befell:
For such, Crowdero being fast
In dungeon shut, we left him last.
Triumphant laurels seem’d to grow
No where so green as on his brow;
Laden with which, as well as tir’d
With conquering toil he now retir’d
Unto a neighb’ring castle by,
To rest his body, and apply
Fit med’cines to each glorious bruise
He got in fight, reds, blacks, and blues,
To mollify the uneasy pang
Of ev’ry honourable bang,
Which b’ing by skilful midwife drest,
He laid him down to take his rest.
But all in vain. H’ had got a hurt
O’ th’ inside, of a deadlier sort,
By Cupid made, who took his stand
Upon a widow’s jointure land,
(For he, in all his am’rous battles,
No ’dvantage finds like goods and chattels,)
Drew home his bow, and, aiming right,
Let fly an arrow at the Knight:
The shaft against a rib did glance,
And gall’d him in the purtenance.
But time had somewhat ’suag’d his pain
After he found his suit in vain.
For that proud dame, for whom his soul
Was burnt in ’s belly like a coal,
(That belly which so oft did ake
And suffer griping for her sake,
Till purging comfits and ants’-eggs
Had almost brought him off his legs,)
Us’d him so like a base rascallion,
That old Pyg⁠—(what d’y’ call him) malion,76
That cut his mistress out of stone,
Had not so hard a hearted one.
She had a thousand Jadish tricks,
Worse than a mule that flings and kicks;
’Mong which one cross-grain’d freak she had,
As insolent as strange and mad;
She could love none, but only such
As scorn’d and hated her as much.
’Twas a strange riddle of a lady:
Not love, if any lov’d her! Hey-dey!
So cowards never use their might,
But against such as will not fight;
So some diseases have been found
Only to seize upon the sound.
He that gets her by heart, must say her
The back way, like a witch’s prayer.
Meanwhile the Knight had no small task
To compass what he durst not ask.
He loves, but dares not make the motion;
Her ignorance is his devotion:
Like caitiff vile, that, for misdeed,
Rides with his face to rump of steed,
Or rowing scull, he’s fain to love,
Look one way, and another move;
Or like a tumbler, that does play
His game, and look another way,
Until he seize upon the cony;
Just so he does by matrimony:
But all in vain; her subtle snout
Did quickly wind his meaning out;
Which she return’d with too much scorn
To be by man of honour borne:
Yet much he bore, until the distress
He suffer’d from his spiteful mistress
Did stir his stomach; and the pain
He had endur’d from her disdain,
Turn’d to regret so resolute,
That he resolv’d to wave his suit,
And either to renounce her quite,
Or for a while play least in sight.
This resolution b’ing put on,
He kept some months, and more had done,
But being brought so nigh by fate,
The victory he achiev’d so late
Did set his thoughts agog, and ope
A door to discontinu’d hope,
That seem’d to promise he might win
His dame too, now his hand was in;
And that his valour, and the honour
H’ had newly gain’d, might work upon her.
These reasons made his mouth to water
With am’rous longings to be at her.

Quoth he, unto himself, Who knows,
But this brave conquest o’er my foes
May reach her heart, and make that stoop,
As I but now have forc’d the troop?
If nothing can oppugn love,
And virtue invious ways can prove,
What may he not confide to do
That brings both love and virtue too?
But thou bring’st valour too and wit:
Two things that seldom fail to hit.
Valour’s a mouse-trap, wit a gin,
Which women oft are taken in.
Then, Hudibras, why should’st thou fear
To be, that art a conqueror?
Fortune th’ audacious doth juvare,
But lets the timidous miscarry.
Then while the honour thou hast got
Is spick and span new, piping hot,
Strike her up bravely, thou hadst best,
And trust thy fortune with the rest.

Such thoughts as these the Knight did keep,
More than his bangs or fleas, from sleep.
And as an owl, that in a barn
Sees a mouse creeping in the corn,
Sits still, and shuts his round blue eyes,
As if he slept, until he spies
The little beast within his reach,
Then starts, and seizes on the wretch;
So from his couch the Knight did start
To seize upon the widow’s heart;
Crying with hasty tone, and hoarse,
Ralpho, dispatch; to horse, to horse.
And ’twas but time; for now the rout,
We left engag’d to seek him out,
By speedy marches, were advanc’d
Up to the fort, where he ensconc’d;
And all th’ avenues had possest
About the place, from east to west.

That done, a while they made a halt,
To view the ground, and where t’ assault:
Then call’d a council, which was best,
By siege or onslaught, to invest
The enemy; and ’twas agreed,
By storm and onslaught to proceed.
This b’ing resolv’d, in comely sort
They now drew up t’ attack the fort:
When Hudibras, about to enter
Upon another-gates adventure,
To Ralpho call’d aloud to arm,
Not dreaming of approaching storm.
Whether dame Fortune, or the care
Of angel bad or tutelar,
Did arm, or thrust him on a danger
To which he was an utter stranger,
That foresight might, or might not, blot
The glory he had newly got;
For to his shame it might be said,
They took him napping in his bed;
To them we leave it to expound,
That deal in sciences profound.

His courser scarce he had bestrid,
And Ralpho that on which he rid,
When setting ope the postern gate,
Which they thought best to sally at,
The foe appear’d, drawn up and drill’d,
Ready to charge them in the field.
This somewhat startled the bold Knight,
Surpris’d with th’ unexpected sight:
The bruises of his bones and flesh
He thought began to smart afresh;
Till recollecting wonted courage,
His fear was soon converted to rage,
And thus he spoke: The coward foe,
Whom we but now gave quarter to,
Look, yonder’s rally’d, and appears
As if they had outrun their fears.
The glory we did lately get,
The Fates command us to repeat;
And to their wills we must succumb,
Quocunque trahunt, ’tis our doom.
This is the same numeric crew
Which we so lately did subdue;
The self-same individuals that
Did run as mice do from a cat,
When we courageously did wield
Our martial weapons in the field,
To tug for victory; and when
We shall our shining blades agen
Brandish in terror o’er our heads,
They’ll straight resume their wonted dreads.
Fear is an ague, that forsakes
And haunts by fits those whom it takes;
And they’ll opine they feel the pain
And blows they felt to-day again.
Then let us boldly charge them home,
And make no doubt to overcome.

This said, his courage to inflame,
He call’d upon his mistress’ name.
His pistol next he cock’d anew,
And out his nut-brown whinyard drew;
And, placing Ralpho in the front,
Reserv’d himself to bear the brunt,
As expert warriors use: then ply’d
With iron heel his courser’s side,
Conveying sympathetic speed
From heel of Knight to heel of steed.

Meanwhile the foe, with equal rage
And speed, advancing to engage;
Both parties now were drawn so close,
Almost to come to handy-blows;
When Orsin first let fly a stone
At Ralpho; not so huge a one
As that which Diomed did maul
Aeneas on the bum withal;
Yet big enough, if rightly hurl’d,
T’ have sent him to another world,
Whether above-ground, or below,
Which saints twice dipt are destin’d to.
The danger startled the bold Squire,
And made him some few steps retire;
But Hudibras advanc’d to’ ’s aid,
And rous’d his spirits, half dismay’d.
He, wisely doubting lest the shot
Of th’ enemy, now growing hot,
Might at a distance gall, press’d close,
To come pell-mell to handy-blows,
And, that he might their aim decline,
Advanc’d still in an oblique line;
But prudently forbore to fire,
Till breast to breast he had got nigher,
As expert warriors use to do
When hand to hand they charge their foe.
This order the advent’rous Knight,
Most soldier-like, observ’d in fight,
When fortune (as she’s wont) turn’d fickle,
And for the foe began to stickle.
The more shame for her goodyship,
To give so near a friend the slip.
For Colon, choosing out a stone,
Levell’d so right, it thump’d upon
His manly paunch with such a force,
As almost beat him off his horse.
He lost his whinyard, and the rein;
But, laying fast hold of the mane,
Preserv’d his seat; and as a goose
In death contracts his talons close,
So did the Knight, and with one claw
The trigger of his pistol draw.
The gun went off: and as it was
Still fatal to stout Hudibras,
In all his feats of arms, when least
He dreamt of it, to prosper best,
So now he far’d: the shot, let fly
At random ’mong the enemy,
Pierc’d Talgol’s gaberdine, and grazing
Upon his shoulder, in the passing,
Lodg’d in Magnano’s brass habergeon,
Who straight, A surgeon! cry’d, a surgeon!
He tumbled down, and, as he fell,
Did Murther! Murther! Murther! yell.
This startled their whole body so,
That if the Knight had not let go
His arms, but been in warlike plight,
H’ had won (the second time) the fight;
As, if the Squire had but fall’n on,
He had inevitably done:
But he, diverted with the care
Or Hudibras his hurt, forbare
To press th’ advantage of his fortune,
While danger did the rest dishearten:
For he with Cerdon b’ing engag’d
In close encounter, they both wag’d
The fight so well, ’twas hard to say
Which side was like to get the day.
And now the busy work of death
Had tir’d them, so th’ agreed to breathe,
Preparing to renew the fight,
When the disaster of the Knight,
And th’ other party, did divert
Their fell intent, and forc’d them part.
Ralpho press’d up to Hudibras,
And Cerdon where Magnano was;
Each striving to confirm his party
With stout encouragements and hearty.

Quoth Ralpho, Courage, valiant Sir,
And let revenge and honour stir
Your spirits up: once more fall on,
The shatter’d foe begins to run:
For if but half so well you knew
To use your victory as subdue,
They durst not, after such a blow
As you have given them, face us now;
But from so formidable a soldier
Had fled like crows when they smell powder.
Thrice have they seen your sword aloft
Wav’d o’er their heads, and fled as oft;
But if you let them recollect
Their spirits, now dismay’d and checkt,
You’ll have a harder game to play
Than yet y’ have had to get the day.

Thus spoke the stout Squire; but was heard
By Hudibras with small regard.
His thoughts were fuller of the bang
Be lately took, than Ralph’s harangue;
To which he answer’d, Cruel Fate
Tells me thy counsel comes too late.
The knotted blood within my hose,
That from my wounded body flows,
With mortal crisis doth portend
My days to appropinque an end.
I am for action now unfit,
Either of fortitude or wit:
Fortune, my foe, begins to frown,
Resolv’d to pull my stomach down.
I am not apt, upon a wound,
Or trivial basting, to despond:
Yet I’d be loth my days to curtail:
For if I thought my wounds not mortal,
Or that we’d time enough as yet
To make an hon’rable retreat,
’Twere the best course: but if they find
We fly, and leave our arms behind
For them to seize on, the dishonour,
And danger too, is such, I’ll sooner
Stand to it boldly, and take quarter,
To let them see I am no starter.
In all the trade of war, no feat
Is nobler than a brave retreat:
For those that run away, and fly,
Take place at least of th’ enemy.

This said, the Squire with active speed
Dismounted from his bony steed,
To seize the arms, which, by mischance,
Fell from the bold Knight in a trance.
These being found out, and restor’d
To Hudibras, their natural lord,
As a man may say, with might and main
He hasted to get up again.
Thrice he assay’d to mount aloft,
But, by his weighty bum, as oft
He was pull’d back, till having found
Th’ advantage of the rising ground,
Thither he led his warlike steed,
And having plac’d him right, with speed
Prepar’d again to scale the beast;
When Orsin, who had newly dress’d
The bloody scar upon the shoulder
Of Talgol with Promethean powder,
And now was searching for the shot
That laid Magnano on the spot,
Beheld the sturdy Squire aforesaid
Preparing to climb up his horse’ side.
He left his cure, and laying hold
Upon his arms, with courage bold,
Cry’d out, ’Tis now no time to dally,
The enemy begin to rally;
Let us, that are unhurt and whole,
Fall on, and happy man be’s dole.

This said, like to a thunderbolt,
He flew with fury to th’ assault,
Striving the enemy to attack
Before he reach’d his horse’s back.
Ralpho was mounted now, and gotten
O’erthwart his beast with active vau’ting,
Wriggling his body to recover
His seat, and cast his right leg over,
When Orsin, rushing in, bestow’d
On horse and man so heavy a load,
The beast was startled, and begun
To kick and fling like mad, and run,
Bearing the tough Squire like a sack,
Or stout king Richard, on his back;
Till stumbling, he threw him down,
Sore bruis’d, and cast into a swoon.
Meanwhile the Knight began to rouse
The sparkles of his wonted prowess:
He thrust his hand into his hose,
And found, both by his eyes and nose,
’Twas only choler, and not blood,
That from his wounded body flow’d.
This, with the hazard of the Squire,
Inflam’d him with despiteful ire:
Courageously he fac’d about,
And drew his other pistol out,
And now had half way bent the cock,
When Cerdon gave so fierce a shock,
With sturdy truncheon, ’thwart his arm,
That down it fell, and did no harm:
Then stoutly pressing on with speed,
Assay’d to pull him off his steed.
The Knight his sword had only left,
With which he Cerdon’s head had cleft,
Or at the least cropt off a limb,
But Orsin came, and rescu’d him.
He, with his lance, attack’d the Knight
Upon his quarters opposite:
But as a bark, that in foul weather,
Toss’d by two adverse winds together,
Is bruis’d, and beaten to and fro,
And knows not which to turn him to;
So far’d the Knight between two foes,
And knew not which of them t’oppose;
Till Orsin, charging with his lance
At Hudibras, by spiteful chance,
Hit Cerdon such a bang, as stunn’d
And laid him flat upon the ground.
At this the Knight began to cheer up,
And, raising up himself on stirrup,
Cry’d out, Victoria! lie thou there,
And I shall straight dispatch another,
To bear thee company in death;
But first I’ll halt a while, and breathe:
As well he might; for Orsin, griev’d
At th’ wound that Cerdon had receiv’d,
Ran to relieve him with his lore,
And cure the hurt he gave before.
Meanwhile the Knight had wheel’d about,
To breathe himself, and next find out
Th’ advantage of the ground, where best
He might the ruffled foe infest.
This b’ing resolv’d, he spurr’d his steed,
To run at Orsin with full speed,
While he was busy in the care
Of Cerdon’s wound, and unaware;
But he was quick, and had already
Unto the part apply’d remedy;
And, seeing th’ enemy prepar’d,
Drew up, and stood upon his guard.
Then, like a warrior right expert
And skilful in the martial art,
The subtle Knight straight made a halt,
And judg’d it best to stay th’ assault,
Until he had reliev’d the Squire,
And then in order to retire;
Or, as occasion should invite,
With forces join’d renew the fight.
Ralpho, by this time disentranc’d,
Upon his bum himself advanc’d,
Though sorely bruis’d; his limbs all o’er
With ruthless bangs were stiff and sore.
Right fain he would have got upon
His feet again, to get him gone,
When Hudibras to aid him came:
Quoth he (and call’d him by his name,)
Courage! the day at length is ours;
And we once more, as conquerors,
Have both the field and honour won:
The foe is profligate, and run.
I mean all such as can; for some
This hand hath sent to their long home;
And some lie sprawling on the ground,
With many a gash and bloody wound.
Caesar himself could never say
He got two victories in a day,
As I have done, that can say, Twice I
In one day, Veni, Vidi, Vici.
The foe’s so numerous, that we
Cannot so often vincere
As they perire, and yet enow
Be left to strike an after-blow;
Then, lest they rally, and once more
Put us to fight the bus’ness o’er,
Get up, and mount thy steed: Dispatch,
And let us both their motions watch.

Quoth Ralph, I should not, if I were
In case for action, now be here:
Nor have I turn’d my back, or hang’d
An arse, for fear of being bang’d.
It was for you I got these harms,
Advent’ring to fetch off your arms.
The blows and drubs I have receiv’d
Have bruis’d my body, and bereav’d
My limbs of strength. Unless you stoop,
And reach your hand to pull me up,
I shall lie here, and be a prey
To those who now are run away.

That thou shalt not (quoth Hudibras;)
We read the ancients held it was
More honourable far, servare
Civem, than slay an adversary:
The one we oft to-day have done,
The other shall dispatch anon:
And though th’ art of a different church,
I will not leave thee in the lurch.
This said, he jogg’d his good steed nigher,
And steer’d him gently towards the Squire;
Then bowing down his body, stretch’d
His hand out, and at Ralpho reach’d;
When Trulla, whom he did not mind,
Charg’d him like lightening behind.
She had been long in search about
Magnano’s wound, to find it out;
But could find none, nor where the shot,
That had so startled him, was got:
But having found the worst was past,
She fell to her own work at last,
The pillage of the prisoners,
Which in all feats of arms was hers;
And now to plunder Ralph she flew,
When Hudibras his hard fate drew
To succour him; for, as he bow’d
To help him up, she laid a load
Of blows so heavy, and plac’d so well,
On t’ other side, that down he fell.
Yield, scoundrel base (quoth she,) or die:
Thy life is mine, and liberty:
But if thou think’st I took thee tardy,
And dar’st presume to be so hardy,
To try thy fortune o’er afresh,
I’ll wave my title to thy flesh;
Thy arms and baggage, now my right;
And if thou hast the heart to try ’t,
I’ll lend thee back thyself a while,
And once more, for that carcass vile,
Fight upon tick.⁠—Quoth Hudibras,
Thou offer’st nobly, valiant lass,
And I shall take thee at thy word.
First let me rise and take my sword;
That sword which has so oft this day
Through squadrons of my foes made way,
And some to other worlds dispatch’d,
Now with a feeble spinster match’d,
Will blush with blood ignoble stain’d,
By which no honour’s to be gain’d.
But if thou’lt take m’ advice in this,
Consider whilst thou may’st, what ’tis
To interrupt a victor’s course,
B’ opposing such a trivial force:
For if with conquest I come off,
(And that I shall do, sure enough,)
Quarter thou canst not have, nor grace,
By law of arms, in such a case;
Both which I now do offer freely.
I scorn (quoth she) thou coxcomb silly,
(Clapping her hand upon her breech,
To show how much she priz’d his speech,)
Quarter or counsel from a foe;
If thou can’st force me to it, do.
But lest it should again be said,
When I have once more won thy head,
I took thee napping, unprepar’d,
Arm, and betake thee to thy guard.

This said, she to her tackle fell,
And on the Knight let fall a peal
Of blows so fierce, and press’d so home,
That he retir’d, and follow’d ’s bum.
Stand to ’t (quoth she) or yield to mercy:
It is not fighting arsie-versie
Shall serve thy turn.⁠—This stirr’d his spleen
More than the danger he was in,
The blows he felt, or was to feel,
Although th’ already made him reel.
Honour, despight, revenge and shame,
At once into his stomach came,
Which fir’d it so, he rais’d his arm
Above his head, and rain’d a storm
Of blows so terrible and thick,
As if he meant to hash her quick.
But she upon her truncheon took them,
And by oblique diversion broke them,
Waiting an opportunity
To pay all back with usury,
Which long she fail’d not of; for now
The Knight with one dead-doing blow
Resolving to decide the fight,
And she with quick and cunning slight,
Avoiding it, the force and weight
He charg’d upon it was so great,
As almost sway’d him to the ground.
No sooner she th’ advantage found,
But in she flew; and seconding
With home-made thrust the heavy swing,
She laid him flat upon his side;
And mounting on his trunk astride,
Quoth she, I told thee what would come
Of all thy vapouring, base scum.
Say, will the law of arms allow
I may have grace and quarter now?
Or wilt thou rather break thy word,
And stain thine honour, than thy sword?
A man of war to damn his soul,
In basely breaking his parole;
And when, before the fight, th’ had’st vow’d
To give no quarter in cold blood
Now thou hast got me for a Tartar,
To make me ’gainst my will take quarter;
Why dost not put me to the sword,
But cowardly fly from thy word?

Quoth Hudibras, The day’s thine own;
Thou and thy stars have cast me down;
My laurels are transplanted now,
And flourish on thy conqu’ring brow:
My loss of honour’s great enough,
Thou need’st not brand it with a scoff:
Sarcasms may eclipse thine own,
But cannot blur my lost renown.
I am not now in Fortune’s power;
He that is down can fall no lower.
The ancient heroes were illustrious
For being benign, and not blustrous,
Against a vanquish’d foe: their swords
Were sharp and trenchant, not their words;
And did in fight but cut work out
T’ employ their courtesies about.

Quoth she, Although thou hast deserv’d,
Base slubberdegullion, to be serv’d
As thou did’st vow to deal with me,
If thou had’st got the victory;
Yet I shall rather act a part
That suits my fame than thy desert.
Thy arms, thy liberty, beside
All that’s on th’ outside of thy hide,
Are mine by military law,
Of which I will not hate one straw:
The rest, thy life and limbs, once more,
Though doubly forfeit, I restore,

Quoth Hudibras, It is too late
For me to treat or stipulate:
What thou command’st, I must obey:
Yet those whom I expugn’d to-day
Of thine own party, I let go,
And gave them life and freedom too:
Both dogs and bear, upon their parole,
Whom I took pris’ners in this quarrel.
Quoth Trulla, Whether thou or they
Let one another run away,
Concerns not me: but was’t not thou
That gave Crowdero quarter too?
Crowdero, whom, in irons bound,
Thou basely threw’st into Lob’s pound,
Where still he lies, and with regret
His gen’rous bowels rage and fret.
But now thy carcass shall redeem
And serve to be exchang’d for him.

This said, the Knight did straight submit,
And laid his weapons at her feet.
Next he disrob’d his gaberdine,
And with it did himself resign.
She took it, and forthwith divesting
The mantle that she wore, said jesting,
Take that, and wear it for my sake;
Then threw it o’er his sturdy back,
And as the French, we conquer’d once,
Now give us laws for pantaloons,77
The length of breeches, and the gathers,
Port-cannons, periwigs, and feathers;
Just so the proud insulting lass
Array’d and dighted Hudibras.

Meanwhile the other champions, yerst
In hurry of the fight disperst,
Arriv’d when Trulla won the day,
To share in th’ honour and the prey,
And out of Hudibras his hide
With vengeance to be satisfy’d;
Which now they were about to pour
Upon him in a wooden show’r;
But Trulla thrust herself between,
And striding o’er his back agen,
She brandish’d o’er her head his sword,
And vow’d they should not break her word:
Sh’ had giv’n him quarter, and her blood
Or theirs should make that quarter good;
For she was bound, by law of arms,
To see him safe from further harms,
In dungeon deep Crowdero, cast
By Hudibras, as yet lay fast;
Where, to the hard and ruthless stones,
His great heart made perpetual moans:
Him she resolv’d that Hudibras
Should ransom, and supply his place.

This stopp’d their fury, and the basting
Which toward Hudibras was hasting.
They thought it was but just and right
That what she had achiev’d in fight
She should dispose of how she pleas’d;
Crowdero ought to be releas’d:
Nor could that any way be done
So well as this she pitch’d upon:
For who a better could imagine?
This therefore they resolv’d t’ engage in.
The Knight and Squire first they made
Rise from the ground where they were laid;
Then mounted both upon their horses,
But with their faces to the arses;
Orsin led Hudibras’s beast,
And Talgol that which Ralpho prest,
Whom stout Magnano, valiant Cerdon,
And Colon, waited as a guard on;
All ush’ring Trulla in the rear,
With th’ arms of either prisoner.
In this proud order and array
They put themselves upon their way,
Striving to reach th’ enchanted castle,
Where stout Crowdero in durance lay still.
Thither with greater speed than shows
And triumph over conquer’d foes
Do use t’ allow, or than the bears
Or pageants borne before lord mayors
Are wont to use, they soon arriv’d
In order, soldier-like contriv’d;
Still marching in a warlike posture,
As fit for battle as for muster.
The Knight and Squire they first unhorse,
And bending ’gainst the fort their force,
They all advanc’d, and round about
Begirt the magical redoubt.
Magnan led up in this adventure,
And made way for the rest to enter;
For he was skilful in black art,
No less than he that built the fort;
And with an iron mace laid flat
A breach, which straight all enter’d at,
And in the wooden dungeon found
Crowdero laid upon the ground.
Him they release from durance base,
Restor’d t’ his fiddle and his case,
And liberty, his thirsty rage
With luscious vengeance to assuage:
For he no sooner was at large,
But Trulla straight brought on the charge,
And in the self-same limbo put
The Knight and Squire where he was shut;
Where leaving them in Hockley i’ th’ Hole,
Their bangs and durance to condole,
Confin’d and conjur’d into narrow
Enchanted mansion to know sorrow,
In the same order and array
Which they advanc’d, they march’d away.
But Hudibras who scorn’d to stoop
To Fortune, or be said to droop,
Cheer’d up himself with ends of verse,
And sayings of philosophers.

Quoth he, Th’ one half of man, his mind,
Is, sui juris, unconfin’d,
And cannot be laid by the heels,
Whate’er the other moiety feels.
’Tis not restraint or liberty
That makes men prisoners or free;
But perturbations that possess
The mind, or aequanimities.
The whole world was not half so wide
To Alexander, when he cry’d,
Because he had but one to subdue,
As was a paltry narrow tub to
Diogenes, who is not said
(For aught that ever I could read)
To whine, put finger i’ th’ eye, and sob,
Because h’ had ne’er another tub.
The ancients make two sev’ral kinds
Of prowess in heroic minds;
The active, and the passive valiant;
Both which are pari libra gallant:
For both to give blows, and to carry,
In fights are equi-necessary:
But in defeats, the passive stout
Are always found to stand it out
Most desp’rately, and to outdo
The active ’gainst the conqu’ring foe.
Though we with blacks and blues are suggill’d,
Or, as the vulgar say, are cudgell’d;
He that is valiant, and dares fight,
Though drubb’d, can lose no honour by’t.
Honour’s a lease for lives to come,
And cannot be extended from
The legal tenant; ’tis a chattel
Not to be forfeited in battle.
If he that in the field is slain,
Be in the bed of honour lain,
He that is beaten may be said
To lie in honour’s truckle-bed.
For as we see th’ eclipsed sun
By mortals is more gaz’d upon,
Than when, adorn’d with all his light,
He shines in serene sky most bright;
So valour, in a low estate,
Is most admir’d and wonder’d at.

Quoth Ralph, How great I do not know
We may by being beaten grow;
But none, that see how here we sit,
Will judge us overgrown with wit.
As gifted brethren, preaching by
A carnal hour-glass, do imply,
Illumination can convey
Into them what they have to say,
But not how much; so well enough
Know you to charge, but not draw off:
For who, without a cap and bauble,
Having subdu’d a bear and rabble,
And might with honour have come off,
Would put it to a second proof?
A politic exploit, right fit
For Presbyterian zeal and wit.

Quoth Hudibras, That cuckoo’s tone,
Ralpho, thou always harp’st upon.
When thou at any thing would’st rail,
Thou mak’st Presbytery the scale
To take the height on’t, and explain
To what degree it is profane:
Whats’ever will not with (thy what d’ye call)
Thy light jump right, thou call’st synodical;
As if Presbytery were the standard
To size whats’ever ’s to be slander’d.
Dost not remember how this day,
Thou to my beard wast bold to say,
That thou coud’st prove bear-baiting equal
With synods orthodox and legal?
Do if thou canst; for I deny’t,
And dare thee to ’t with all thy light.

Quoth Ralpho, Truly that is no
Hard matter for a man to do,
That has but any guts in ’s brains,
And could believe it worth his pains;
But since you dare and urge me to it,
You’ll find I’ve light enough to do it.

Synods are mystical bear-gardens,
Where elders, deputies, churchwardens,
And other members of the court,
Manage the Babylonish sport;
For prolocutor, scribe, and bear-ward,
Do differ only in a mere word;
Both are but sev’ral synagogues
Of carnal men, and bears, and dogs:
Both anti-christian assemblies,
To mischief bent, far as in them lies;
Both stave and tail with fierce contests,
The one with men, the other beasts.
The diff’rence is, the one fights with
The tongue, the other with the teeth;
And that they bait but bears in this,
In th’ other, souls and consciences;
Where Saints themselves are brought to stake
For gospel-light, and conscience’ sake;
Expos’d to Scribes and Presbyters,
Instead of mastiff dogs and curs,
Than whom th’ have less humanity;
For these at souls of men will fly.
This to the prophet did appear,
Who in a vision saw a bear,
Prefiguring the beastly rage
Of church-rule in this latter age:
As is demonstrated at full
By him that baited the Pope’s bull.78
Bears nat’rally are beasts of prey,
That live by rapine; so do they.
What are their orders, constitutions,
Church-censures, curses, absolutions,
But sev’ral mystic chains they make,
To tie poor Christians to the stake,
And then set heathen officers,
Instead of dogs, about their ears?
For to prohibit and dispense;
To find out or to make offence;
Of hell and heaven to dispose;
To play with souls at fast and loose;
To set what characters they please,
And mulcts on sin or godliness;
Reduce the Church to gospel-order,
By rapine, sacrilege, and murder;
To make Presbytery supreme,
And Kings themselves submit to them;
And force all people, though against
Their consciences, to turn saints;
Must prove a pretty thriving trade,
When Saints monopolists are made:
When pious frauds, and holy shifts,
Are dispensations and gifts,
Their godliness becomes mere ware,
And ev’ry synod but a fair.
Synods are whelps of th’ Inquisition,
A mongrel breed of like pernicion;
And growing up, became the sires
Of scribes, commissioners, and triers;
Whose bus’ness is, by cunning sleight,
To cast a figure for men’s light;
To find, in lines of beard and face,
The physiognomy of grace;
And by the sound and twang of nose,
If all be sound within disclose,
Free from a crack or flaw of sinning,
As men try pipkins by the ringing;
By black caps, underlaid with white,
Give certain guess at inward light.
Which serjeants at the gospel wear,
To make the spiritual calling clear;
The handkerchief about the neck
(Canonical cravat of Smeck,79
From whom the institution came,
When church and state they set on flame,
And worn by them as badges then
Of spiritual warfaring men)
Judge rightly if regeneration
Be of the newest cut in fashion.
Sure ’tis an orthodox opinion,
That grace is founded in dominion.
Great piety consists in pride;
To rule is to be sanctified:
To domineer, and to control,
Both o’er the body and the soul,
Is the most perfect discipline
Of church-rule, and by right divine.
Bel and the Dragon’s chaplains were
More moderate than these by far:
For they (poor knaves) were glad to cheat,
To get their wives and children meat;
But these will not be fobb’d off so;
They must have wealth and power too,
Or else with blood and desolation
They’ll tear it out o’ th’ heart o’ th’ nation.

Sure these themselves from primitive
And Heathen Priesthood do derive,
When butchers were the only clerks,
Elders and presbyters of kirks;
Whose directory was to kill;
And some believe it is so still.
The only diff’rence is, that then
They slaughter’d only beasts, now men.
For then to sacrifice a bullock,
Or now and then a child to Moloch,
They count a vile abomination,
But not to slaughter a whole nation.
Presbytery does but translate
The Papacy to a free state;
A commonwealth of Popery,
Where ev’ry village is a See
As well as Rome, and must maintain
A tithe-pig metropolitan;
Where ev’ry presbyter and deacon
Commands the keys for cheese and bacon;
And ev’ry hamlet’s governed
By ’s Holiness, the church’s head;
More haughty and severe in ’s place,
Than Gregory or Boniface.
Such Church must (surely) be a monster
With many heads: for if we conster
What in th’ Apocalypse we find,
According to th’ apostle’s mind,
’Tis that the whore of Babylon
With many heads did ride upon;
Which heads denote the sinful tribe
Of deacon, priest, lay-elder, scribe.

Lay-elder, Simeon to Levi,
Whose little finger is as heavy
As loins of patriarchs, prince-prelate,
And bishop-secular. This zealot
Is of a mongrel, diverse kind;
Cleric before, and lay behind;
A lawless linseywoolsey brother,
Half of one order, half another;
A creature of amphibious nature,
On land a beast, a fish in water;
That always preys on grace or sin;
A sheep without, a wolf within.
This fierce inquisitor has chief
Dominion over men’s belief
And manners; can pronounce a saint
Idolatrous or ignorant,
When superciliously he sifts
Through coarsest boulter others’ gifts;
For all men live and judge amiss,
Whose talents jump not just with his.
He’ll lay on gifts with hands, and place
On dullest noddle light and grace,
The manufacture of the kirk.
Those pastors are but th’ handy-work
Of his mechanic paws, instilling
Divinity in them by feeling;
From whence they start up chosen vessels,
Made by contact, as men get measles.
So cardinals, they say, do grope
At th’ other end the new-made pope.80

Hold, hold, quoth Hudibras; soft fire,
They say, does make sweet malt. Good Squire,
Festina lente, not too fast;
For haste (the proverb says) makes waste.
The quirks and cavils thou dost make
Are false, and built upon mistake:
And I shall bring you, with your pack
Of fallacies, t’ elenchi back;
And put your arguments in mood
And figure to be understood.
I’ll force you, by right ratiocination,
To leave your vitilitigation,81
And make you keep to th’ question close,
And argue dialecticos.

The question then, to state it first,
Is, Which is better, or which worst,
Synods or bears? Bears I avow
To be the worst, and synods thou.
But to make good th’ assertion,
Thou say’st they’re really all one.
If so, not worst; for if th’ are idem
Why then, tantundem dat tantidem.
For if they are the same, by course,
Neither is better, neither worse.
But I deny they are the same,
More than a maggot and I am.
That both are animalia
I grant, but not rationalia:
For though they do agree in kind,
Specific difference we find;
And can no more make bears of these,
Than prove my horse is Socrates.
That synods are bear-gardens too,
Thou dost affirm; but I say, No:
And thus I prove it in a word;
Whats’ver assembly’s not impow’r’d
To censure, curse, absolve, and ordain,
Can be no synod: but bear-garden
Has no such pow’r; ergo, ’tis none:
And so thy sophistry’s o’erthrown.

But yet we are beside the question
Which thou didst raise the first contest on;
For that was, Whether bears are better
Than synod-men? I say, Negatur.
That bears are beasts, and synods men,
Is held by all: they’re better then;
For bears and dogs on four legs go,
As beasts, but synod-men on two.
’Tis true, they all have teeth and nails;
But prove that synod-men have tails;
Or that a rugged, shaggy fur
Grows o’er the hide of presbyter;
Or that his snout and spacious ears
Do hold proportion with a bear’s.
A bear’s a savage beast, of all
Most ugly and unnatural
Whelp’d without form, until the dam
Has lick’d it into shape and frame:
But all thy light can ne’er evict,
That ever synod man was lick’d,
Or brought to any other fashion
Than his own will and inclination.

But thou dost further yet in this
Oppugn thyself and sense; that is,
Thou would’st have presbyters to go
For bears and dogs, and bear-wards too;
A strange chimera of beasts and men,
Made up of pieces heterogene;
Such as in nature never met
In eodem subjecto yet.
Thy other arguments are all
Supposures, hypothetical,
That do but beg, and we may chose
Either to grant them, or refuse.
Much thou hast said, which I know when
And where thou stol’st from other men,
Whereby ’tis plain thy light and gifts
Are all but plagiary shifts;
And is the same that Ranter said,
Who, arguing with me, broke my head,
And tore a handful of my beard:
The self-same cavils then I heard,
When, b’ing in hot dispute about
This controversy, we fell out:
And what thou know’st I answer’d then,
Will serve to answer thee agen.

Quoth Ralpho, Nothing but th’ abuse
Of human learning you produce;
Learning, that cobweb of the brain,
Profane, erroneous, and vain;
A trade of knowledge, as replete
As others are with fraud and cheat;
An art t’ encumber gifts and wit,
And render both for nothing fit;
Makes light unactive, dull, and troubled,
Like little David in Saul’s doublet:
A cheat that scholars put upon
Other men’s reason and their own;
A fort of error, to ensconce
Absurdity and ignorance;
That renders all the avenues
To truth impervious and abstruse,
By making plain things, in debate,
By art, perplex’d, and intricate:
For nothing goes for sense or light
That will not with old rules jump right:
As if rules were not in the schools
Deriv’d from truth, but truth from rules.
This Pagan heathenish invention
Is good for nothing but contention.
For as, in sword and buckler fight,
All blows do on the target light;
So when men argue, the great’st part
O’ th’ contest falls on terms of art,
Until the fustian stuff be spent,
And then they fall to th’ argument.

Quoth Hudibras, Friend Ralph, thou hast
Out-run the constable at last:
For thou art fallen on a new
Dispute, as senseless as untrue,
But to the former opposite
And contrary as black to white;
Mere disparata;82 that concerning
Presbytery; this, human learning;
Two things s’ averse, they never yet
But in thy rambling fancy met.
But I shall take a fit occasion
T’ evince thee by ratiocination,
Some other time, in place more proper
Than this we’re in; therefore let’s stop here,
And rest our weary’d bones a while,
Already tir’d with other toil.

But now, t’ observe a romantic method,83
Let bloody steel awhile be sheathed;
And all those harsh and rugged sounds
Of bastinadoes, cuts, and wounds,
Exchang’d to Love’s more gentle style,
To let our reader breathe a while:
In which, that we may be as brief as
Is possible, by way of preface,
Is’t not enough to make one strange,
That some men’s fancies should ne’er change,
But make all people do and say
The same things still the self-same way?
Some writers make all ladies purloin’d,
And knights pursuing like a whirlwind:
Others make all their knights, in fits
Of jealousy, to lose their wits;
Till drawing blood o’ th’ dames, like witches,
Th’ are forthwith cur’d of their capriches.
Some always thrive in their amours,
By pulling plaisters off their sores:
As cripples do to get an alms,
Just so do they, and win their dames.
Some force whole regions, in despite
O’ geography, to change their site;
Make former times shake hands with latter,
And that which was before, come after.
But those that write in rhyme, still make
The one verse for the other’s sake;
For one for sense, and one for rhyme,
I think’s sufficient at one time.

But we forget in what sad plight
We whilom left the captiv’d Knight
And pensive Squire, both bruis’d in body,
And conjur’d into safe custody.
Tir’d with dispute and speaking Latin,
As well as basting and bear-baiting,
And desperate of any course,
To free himself by wit or force,
His only solace was, that now
His dog-bolt fortune was so low,
That either it must quickly end,
Or turn about again, and mend;
In which he found th’ event, no less
Than other times, beside his guess.

There is a tall long-sided dame
(But wondrous light,) ycleped Fame
That, like a thin cameleon, boards
Herself on air, and eats her words;
Upon her shoulders wings she wears
Like hanging-sleeves lin’d through with ears,
And eyes, and tongues, as poets list,
Made good by deep mythologist:
With these she through the welkin flies,
And sometimes carries truth, oft lies;
With letters hung, like eastern pigeons,
And mercuries of farthest regions;
Diurnals writ for regulation
Of lying, to inform the nation;
And by their public use to bring down
The rate of whetstones in the kingdom.
About her neck a pacquet-male,
Fraught with advice, some fresh, some stale,
Of men that walk’d when they were dead,
And cows of monsters brought to bed;
Of hail-stones big as pullets’ eggs,
And puppies whelp’d with twice two legs;
A blazing star seen in the west,
By six or seven men at least.
Two trumpets she does sound at once,
But both of clean contrary tones;
But whether both in the same wind,
Or one before, and one behind,
We know not; only this can tell,
The one sounds vilely, th’ other well;
And therefore vulgar authors name
Th’ one Good, th’ other Evil, Fame.

This tattling gossip knew too well
What mischief Hudibras befell.
And straight the spiteful tidings bears
Of all to th’ unkind widow’s ears.
Democritus ne’er laugh’d so loud
To see bawds carted through the crowd,
Or funerals with stately pomp
March slowly on in solemn dump,
As she laugh’d out, until her back,
As well as sides, was like to crack.
She vow’d she would go see the sight,
And visit the distressed Knight;
To do the office of a neighbour,
And be a gossip at his labour;
And from his wooden jail, the stocks,
To set at large his fetter-locks;
And by exchange, parole, or ransom,
To free him from th’ enchanted mansion.
This b’ing resolv’d, she call’d for hood
And usher, implements abroad
Which ladies wear, beside a slender
Young waiting-damsel to attend her;
All which appearing, on she went,
To find the Knight in limbo pent:
And ’twas not long before she found
Him, and the stout Squire, in the pound;
Both coupled in enchanted tether,
By further leg behind together.
For as he sat upon his rump,
His head, like one in doleful dump,
Between his knees, his hands apply’d
Unto his ears on either side,
And by him, in another hole,
Afflicted Ralpho, cheek by jowl;
She came upon him in his wooden
Magician’s circle, on the sudden,
As spirits do t’ a conjurer,
When in their dreadful shapes th’ appear.

No sooner did the Knight perceive her,
But straight he fell into a fever,
Inflam’d all over with disgrace,
To be seen by her in such a place;
Which made him hang his head, and scowl,
And wink and goggle like an owl.
He felt his brains begin to swim,
When thus the dame accosted him:

This place (quoth she) they say’s enchanted,
And with delinquent spirits haunted,
That here are ty’d in chains, and scourg’d,
Until their guilty crimes be purg’d:
Look, there are two of them appear,
Like persons I have seen somewhere.
Some have mistaken blocks and posts
For spectres, apparitions, ghosts,
With saucer eyes, and horns; and some
Have heard the devil beat a drum;
But if our eyes are not false glasses,
That give a wrong account of faces,
That beard and I should be acquainted,
Before ’twas conjur’d or enchanted;
For though it be disfigur’d somewhat,
As if ’t had lately been in combat,
It did belong to a worthy knight,
Howe’er this goblin has come by’t.

When Hudibras the lady heard
Discoursing thus upon his beard,
And speak with such respect and honour
Both of the beard and the beard’s owner,
He thought it best to set as good
A face upon it as he could,
And thus he spoke: Lady, your bright
And radiant eyes are in the right:
The beard’s th’ identic beard you knew,
The same numerically true;
Nor is it worn by fiend or elf,
But its proprietor himself.

O, heavens! quoth she, can that be true?
I do begin to fear ’tis you:
Not by your individual whiskers,
But by your dialect and discourse,
That never spoke to man or beast
In notions vulgarly exprest.
But what malignant star, alas!
Has brought you both to this sad pass?

Quoth he, The fortune of the war,
Which I am less afflicted for,
Than to be seen with beard and face,
By you in such a homely case.

Quoth she, Those need not he asham’d
For being honorably maim’d;
If he that is in battle conquer’d,
Have any title to his own beard,
Though yours be sorely lugg’d and torn,
It does your visage more adorn
Than if ’twere prun’d, and starch’d, and lander’d,
And cut square by the Russian standard.
A torn beard’s like a tatter’d ensign,
That’s bravest which there are most rents in.
That petticoat about your shoulders
Does not so well become a soldier’s;
And I’m afraid they are worse handled,
Although i’ th’ rear; your beard the van led;
And those uneasy bruises make
My heart for company to ake,
To see so worshipful a friend
I’ th’ pillory set, at the wrong end.

Quoth Hudibras, This thing call’d pain
Is (as the learned Stoics maintain)
Not bad simpliciter, nor good,
But merely as ’tis understood.
Sense is deceitful, and may feign
As well in counterfeiting pain
As other gross phenomenas,
In which it oft mistakes the case.
But since th’ immortal intellect
(That’s free from error and defect,
Whose objects still persist the same)
Is free from outward bruise and maim,
Which nought external can expose
To gross material bangs or blows,
It follows we can ne’er be sure,
Whether we pain or not endure;
And just so far are sore and griev’d,
As by the fancy is believ’d.
Some have been wounded with conceit,
And died of mere opinion straight;
Others, though wounded sore in reason,
Felt no contusion, nor discretion.
A Saxon duke did grow so fat,84
That mice (as histories relate)
Eat grots and labyrinths to dwell in
His postic parts without his feeling:
Then how is’t possible a kick
Should e’er reach that way to the quick?

Quoth she, I grant it is in vain.
For one that’s basted to feel pain,
Because the pangs his bones endure
Contribute nothing to the cure:
Yet honor hurt is wont to rage
With pain no med’cine can assuage.

Quoth he, That honour’s very squeamish
That takes a basting for a blemish;
For what’s more hon’rable than scars,
Or skin to tatters rent in wars?
Some have been beaten till they know
What wood a cudgel’s of by th’ blow;
Some kick’d until they can feel whether
A shoe be Spanish or neat’s leather;
And yet have met, after long running,
With some whom they have taught that cunning.
The furthest way about t’ o’ercome,
In the end does prove the nearest home.
By laws of learned duellists,
They that are bruis’d with wood or fists,
And think one beating may for once
Suffice, are cowards and pultroons:
But if they dare engage t’ a second,
They’re stout and gallant fellows reckon’d.

Th’ old Romans freedom did bestow,
Our princes worship, with a blow.
King Pyrrhus85 cur’d his splenetic
And testy courtiers with a kick.
The Negus, when some mighty lord
Or potentate’s to be restor’d,
And pardon’d for some great offence,
With which he’s willing to dispense,
First has him laid upon his belly,
Then beaten back and side to a jelly;
That done, he rises, humbly bows,
And gives thanks for the princely blows;
Departs not meanly proud, and boasting
Of this magnificent rib-roasting.
The beaten soldier proves most manful,
That, like his sword, endures the anvil,
And justly’s held more formidable,
The more his valour’s malleable:
But he that fears a bastinado
Will run away from his own shadow:
And though I’m now in durance fast,
By our own party basely cast,
Ransom, exchange, parole refus’d,
And worse than by the en’my us’d:
In close catasta shut,86 past hope
Of wit or valour to elope;
As beards the nearer that they tend
To th’ earth still grow more reverend,
And cannons shoot the higher pitches,
The lower we let down their breeches;
I’ll make this low dejected fate
Advance me to a greater height.

Quoth she, Y’ have almost made me in love
With that which did my pity move.
Great wits and valours, like great states,
Do sometimes sink with their own weights:
Th’ extremes of glory and of shame,
Like east and west, become the same:
No Indian prince has to his palace
More foll’wers than a thief to th’ gallows.
But if a beating seem so brave,
What glories must a whipping have
Such great achievements cannot fail
To cast salt on a woman’s tail:
For if I thought your nat’ral talent
Of passive courage were so gallant,
As you strain hard to have it thought,
I could grow amorous, and dote.

When Hudibras this language heard,
He prick’d up’s ears and strok’d his beard;
Thought he, this is the lucky hour;
Wines work when vines are in the flow’r.
This crisis then I’ll set my rest on,
And put her boldly to the question.

Madam, what you would seem to doubt,
Shall be to all the world made out,
How I’ve been drubb’d, and with what spirit
And magnanimity I bear it;
And if you doubt it to be true,
I’ll stake myself down against you:
And if I fail in love or troth,
Be you the winner, and take both.

Quoth she, I’ve beard old cunning stagers
Say, fools for arguments use wagers;
And though I prais’d your valour, yet
I did not mean to baulk your wit;
Which, if you have, you must needs know
What I have told you before now,
And you b’ experiment have prov’d,
I cannot love where I’m belov’d.

Quoth Hudibras, ’tis a caprich
Beyond th’ infliction of a witch;
So cheats to play with those still aim
That do not understand the game.
Love in your heart as icily burns
As fire in antique Roman urns,
To warm the dead, and vainly light
Those only that see nothing by’t.
Have you not power to entertain,
And render love for love again;
As no man can draw in his breath
At once, and force out air beneath?
Or do you love yourself so much,
To bear all rivals else a grutch?
What fate can lay a greater curse
Than you upon yourself would force?
For wedlock without love, some say,
Is but a lock without a key.
It is a kind of rape to marry
One that neglects, or cares not for ye:
For what does make it ravishment,
But b’ing against the mind’s consent?
A rape that is the more inhuman
For being acted by a woman.
Why are you fair, but to entice us
To love you, that you may despise us?
But though you cannot love, you say,
Out of your own fanatic way,
Why should you not at least allow
Those that love you to do so too?
For, as you fly me, and pursue
Love more averse, so I do you;
And am by your own doctrine taught
To practise what you call a fau’t.

Quoth she, If what you say is true,
You must fly me as I do you;
But ’tis not what we do, but say,
In love and preaching, that must sway.

Quoth he, To bid me not to love,
Is to forbid my pulse to move,
My beard to grow, my ears to prick up,
Or (when I’m in a fit) to hiccup:
Command me to piss out the moon,
And ’twill as easily be done:
Love’s power’s too great to be withstood
By feeble human flesh and blood.
’Twas he that brought upon his knees
The hect’ring, kill-cow Hercules;
Transform’d his leager-lion’s skin
T’ a petticoat, and made him spin;
Seiz’d on his club, and made it dwindle
T’ a feeble distaff and a spindle.
’Twas he that made emp’rors gallants
To their own sisters and their aunts;
Set popes and cardinals agog,
To play with pages at leap-frog.
’Twas he that gave our senate purges,
And flux’d the house of many a burgess;
Made those that represent the nation
Submit, and suffer amputation;
And all the grandees o’ the cabal
Adjourn to tubs at spring and fall.
He mounted synod-men, and rode ’em
To Dirty-Lane and little Sodom;
Made ’em curvet like Spanish jenets,
And take the ring at Madam ⸻87
’Twas he that made Saint Francis do88
More than the Devil could tempt him to,
In cold and frosty weather grow
Enamour’d of a wife of snow;
And though she were of rigid temper,
With melting flames accost and tempt her;
Which after in enjoyment quenching,
He hung a garland on his engine.