Part I: Canto II

The catalogue and characterOf th' enemies best men of war;Whom, in bold harangue, the KnightDefies, and challenges to fight.H' encounters Talgol, routs the Bear,And takes the Fiddler prisoner,Conveys him to enchanted castle;There shuts him fast in wooden bastile.

THERE was an ancient sage philosopher,That had read ALEXANDER Ross over,And swore the world, as he cou'd prove,Was made of fighting and of love:Just so romances are; for what elseIs in them all, but love and battels?O' th' first of these we've no great matterTo treat of, but a world o' th' latter;In which to do the injur'd rightWe mean, in what concerns just fight.Certes our authors are to blame,For to make some well-sounding nameA pattern fit for modern KnightsTo copy out in frays and fights;Like those that a whole street do razeTo build a palace in the place.They never care how many othersThey kill, without regard of mothers,Or wives, or children, so they canMake up some fierce, dead-doing man,Compos'd of many ingredient valors,Just like the manhood of nine taylors.So a Wild Tartar, when he spiesA man that's handsome, valiant, wise,If he can kill him, thinks t' inheritHis wit, his beauty, and his spiritAs if just so much he enjoy'dAs in another is destroy'dFor when a giant's slain in fight,And mow'd o'erthwart, or cleft down right,It is a heavy case, no doubt;A man should have his brains beat outBecause he's tall, and has large bones;As men kill beavers for their stones.But as for our part, we shall tellThe naked truth of what befel;And as an equal friend to bothThe 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 notDetermin'd whether pace or trot,(That is to say, whether tollutation,As they do term't, or succussation,)We leave it, and go on, as nowSuppose they did, no matter how;Yet some from subtle hints have gotMysterious light, it was a trot:But let that pass: they now begunTo spur their living-engines on.For as whipp'd tops, and bandy'd balls,The learned hold, are animals;So horses they affirm to beMere engines made by geometry;And were invented first from engines,As Indian Britons were from Penguins.So let them be; and, as I was saying,They their live engines ply'd, not stayingUntil they reach'd the fatal champain,Which th' enemy did then encamp on;The dire Pharsalian plain, where battleWas to be wag'd 'twixt puissant cattleAnd 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 cou'd see;Yet not sufficient to descryAll postures of the enemy;Wherefore he bids the Squire ride further,T' observe their numbers, and their order;That when their motions he had knownHe 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'dTo free's sword from retentive scabbardAnd, after many a painful pluck,From rusty durance he bail'd tuck.Then shook himself, to see that prowessIn 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 speedThan 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 beerBy 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'dUnto 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 straightDispatch a friend, let others wait.His warped ear hung o'er the strings,Which was but souse to chitterlings:For guts, some write, e'er they are sodden,Are fit for music, or for pudden;From whence men borrow ev'ry kindOf 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, the four-legg'd bard, had bothA 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 worthDoes raise the minstrelsy, not birth;Where bulls do chuse 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 forWise 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 PeguOr 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 thenCry 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 preyOf many a fierce and bloody fray;Bred up, where discipline most rare is,In military Garden Paris.For soldiers heretofore did growIn gardens, just as weeds do now,Until some splay-foot politiciansT'APOLLO offer'd up petitionsFor licensing a new inventionThey'd found out of an antique engine,To root out all the weeds that growIn 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 instrumentWe 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 heWill 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 discoursingWere 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 thisThan any other warrior, (viz.)None ever acted both parts bolder,Both of a chieftain and a soldier.He was of great descent and highFor splendour and antiquity;And from celestial origineDeriv'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 othersO' 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 spheresWas 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 wou'd solder;By skilful chemist, with great cost,Extracted from a rotten post;But of a heav'nlier influenceThan that which mountebanks dispense;Tho' by Promethean fire made,As they do quack that drive that trade.For as when slovens do amissAt others doors, by stool or piss,The learned write, a red-hot spitB'ing prudently apply'd to it,Will convey mischief from the dungUnto the part that did the wrong,So this did healing; and as sureAs that did mischief this would cure.

Thus virtuous ORSIN was endu'dWith learning, conduct, fortitude,Incomparable: and as the princeOf poets, HOMER sung long sinceA skilful leech is better farThan half an hundred men of war,So he appear'd; and by his skill,No less than dint of sword, cou'd 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 guerreOf 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 preyAre 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;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 tho' his countrymen, the Huns,Did stew their meat between their bumsAnd 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,And got on her a race of worthies,As stout as any upon earth is.Full many a fight for him betweenTALGOL and ORSIN oft had beenEach striving to deserve the crownOf a sav'd citizen; the oneTo guard his bear; the other foughtTo aid his dog; both made more stoutBy sev'ral spurs of neighbourhood,Church-fellow-membership, and bloodBut TALGOL, mortal foe to cows,Never got aught of him but blows;Blows, hard and heavy, such as heHad 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-cowDid, like another Guy, o'erthrow;But Guy with him in fight compar'd,Had like the boar or dun-cow far'dWith greater troops of sheep h' had foughtThan AJAX or bold DON QUIXOTE:And many a serpent of fell kind,With wings before and stings behind,Subdu'd: as poets say, long agoneBold Sir GEORGE, St. GEORGE did the dragon.Nor engine, nor device polemic,Disease, nor doctor epidemic,Tho' stor'd with deletory med'cines,(Which whosoever took is dead since,)E'er sent so vast a colonyTo both the underworlds as he:For he was of that noble tradeThat 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 chariotFor daring to profane a thingSo 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 resistThe fury of his armed fist:Nor cou'd the hardest ir'n hold outAgainst his blows, but they wou'd through't.

In MAGIC he was deeply readAs he that made the brazen head;Profoundly skill'd in the black art;As ENGLISH MERLIN for his heart;But far more skilful in the spheresThan he was at the sieve and shears.He cou'd transform himself in colourAs like the devil as a collier;As like as hypocrites in showAre 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 teachTo make, and how to stop, a breach.A lance he bore with iron pike;Th' one half wou'd 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 brightThan burnish'd armour of her Knight:A bold virago, stout and tall,As JOAN of FRANCE, or English MALL.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 surprize,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 busilyThan the Amazonian dame Penthesile.

And though some criticks 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 abhorThat women should pretend to war,'They wou'd not suffer the stoutest dameTo swear by HERCULES'S name)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 wieldTheir naked tools in open field;As stout ARMIDA, bold TRALESTRIS,And she that wou'd have been the mistressOf GUNDIBERT; but he had grace,And rather took a country lass;They say, 'tis false, without all sense,But of pernicious consequenceTo government, which they supposeCan 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 tellOf 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'dThe weak against the strongest side:Ill has he read, that never hitOn him in Muses' deathless writ.He had a weapon keen and fierce,That through a bull-hide shield wou'd pierce,And cut it in a thousand pieces,Tho' tougher than the Knight of Greece his,With whom his black-thumb'd ancestorWas comrade in the ten years war:For when the restless Greeks sat downSo many years before Troy town,And were renown'd, as HOMER writes,For well-soal'd boots no less than fights,They ow'd that glory only toHis ancestor, that made them so.Fast friend he was to REFORMATION,Until 'twas worn quite out of fashion.Next rectifier of wry LAW,And wou'd 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 agoWas said, and has been wrested toSome 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 thoseThat 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 ableThan HERCULES to clean a stable;As great a drover, and as greatA critic too, in hog or neat.He ripp'd the womb up of his mother,Dame Tellus, 'cause she wanted fotherAnd provender wherewith to feedHimself, and his less cruel steed.It was a question, whether heOr's horse were of a familyMore worshipful: 'till antiquaries(After th' had almost por'd out their eyes)Did very learnedly decideThe 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 pieceOf earth himself, did th' earth possess.

These worthies were the chief that ledThe combatants, each in the headOf his command, with arms and rage,Ready and longing to engage.The numerous rabble was drawn outOf sev'ral counties round about,From villages remote, and shires,Of east and western hemispheresFrom foreign parishes and regions,Of different manners, speech, religions,Came men and mastiffs; some to fightFor 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 furyDoth you to these dire actions hurry?What oestrum, what phrenetic mood,Makes you thus lavish of your blood,While the proud Vies your trophies boastAnd unreveng'd walks -- ghost?What towns, what garrisons might youWith hazard of this blood subdue,Which now y'are bent to throw awayIn vain, untriumphable fray!Shall SAINTS in civil bloodshed wallowOf Saints, and let the CAUSE lie fallow?The Cause for which we fought and sworeSo boldly, shall we now give o'er?Then, because quarrels still are seenWith oaths and swearings to begin,The SOLEMN LEAGUE and COVENANTWill 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 KingAgainst himself the self-same thing,Some will not stick to swear we doFor 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,When 'twas resolv'd by either houseSix Members quarrel to espouse?Did they for this draw down the rabble,With zeal and noises formidable,And make all cries about the townJoin 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 settleChurch discipline, for patching kettle:No sow-gelder did blow his hornTo 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.Botchers left old cloaths in the lurch,And fell to turn and patch the Church.Some cry'd the Covenant insteadOf 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 inclinationOf all degrees to Reformation.And is this all? Is this the endTo 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 flaggons,Int' officers of horse and dragoons;And into pikes and musquetteersStamp beakers, cups, and porringers!A thimble, bodkin, and a spoon,Did start up living men as soonAs 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 itThe Saints fell prostrate, to adore itSo say the wicked -- and will youMake that sarcasmus scandal true,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 winThe women, and make them draw inThe men, as Indians with a femaleTame 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 presentTo their creator, th' Parliament,)In which they freely will confessThey will not, cannot acquiesce,Unless the work be carry'd onIn the same way they have begun,By setting Church and Common-wealAll on a flame, bright as their zeal,On which the Saints were all a-gog,And all this for a bear and dog?The parliament drew up petitionsTo itself, 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'dAs if they to the pillory rode.Have all these courses, these efforts,Been try'd by people of all sorts,Velis & remis, omnibus nervisAnd all t'advance the Cause's service?And shall all now be thrown, awayIn petulant intestine fray?Shall we that in the Cov'nant swore,Each man of us to run beforeAnother, 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 reformThe Church and State, is but a worm;For to subscribe, unsight, unseen,To an unknown Church-discipline,What is it else, but before-handT'engage, and after understand?For when we swore to carry onThe present Reformation,According to the purest modeOf Churches best reformed abroad,What did we else, but make a vowTo 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 caseWith theirs that swore et caeteras;Or the French League, in which men vow'dTo fight to the last drop of blood.These slanders will be thrown uponThe Cause and Work we carry on,If we permit men to run headlongT' exorbitances fit for BedlamRather 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 fomentThis feud, but keep the peace betweenYour brethren and your countrymen;And to those places straight repairWhere your respective dwellings are.But to that purpose first surrenderThe FIDDLER, as the prime offender,Th' incendiary vile, that is chiefAuthor 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 broughtTo condign punishment, as they ought.This must be done; and I would fain seeMortal so sturdy as to gain-say: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 supprestInflamed wrath in glowing, breast,Which now began to rage and burn asImplacably as flame in furnace,Thus answer'd him: -- Thou vermin wretchedAs e'er in measled pork was hatched;Thou tail of worship, that dost growOn rump of justice as of cow;How dar'st thou, with that sullen luggageO' th' self, old ir'n, and other baggage,With which thy steed of bones and leatherHas broke his wind in halting hither;How durst th', I say, adventure thusT' oppose thy lumber against us?Could thine impertinence find outTo work t' employ itself about,Where thou, secure from wooden blow,Thy busy vanity might'st show?Was no dispute a-foot betweenThe caterwauling Brethren?No subtle question rais'd amongThose out-o-their wits, and those i' th' wrong;No prize between those combatantsO' th' times, the Land and Water Saints;Where thou might'st stickle without hazardOf outrage to thy hide and mazzard;And not for want of bus'ness comeTo us to be so troublesome,To interrupt our better sortOf 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 heMight 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 skullTo keep itself in lodging whole,And not provoke the rage of stonesAnd cudgels to thy hide and bonesTremble, 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 honor to wage battle,Thus to be brav'd by foe to cattle?Not all that pride that makes thee swellAs 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 repairDecay'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 evadeThe 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 wightWith gantlet blue, and bases white,And round blunt truncheon by his side,So great a man at arms defy'dWith 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'dHis gun-shot, that in holsters watch'd;And bending cock, he levell'd fullAgainst th' outside of TALGOL'S skull;Vowing that he shou'd ne'er stir further,Nor henceforth cow nor bullock murther.But PALLAS came in shape of rust,And 'twixt the spring and hammerthrustHer Gorgon shield, which made the cockStand stiff, as t'were transform'd to stock.Mean while 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 uponHis mortal foe, the truncheon.The trusty cudgel did opposeItself 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 ballanc'tSo 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 frettingConquest should be so long a getting,He drew up all his force intoOne body, and that into one blow.But TALGOL wisely avoided itBy cunning sleight; for had it hit,The upper part of him the blowHad slit as sure as that below.

Meanwhile th' incomparable COLON,To aid his friend, began to fall on.Him RALPH encounter'd, and straight grewA 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 cou'd divineTo which side conquest would incline,Until MAGNANO, who did envyThat 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 foundWhere 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 tailOf steed, with pricks as sharp as nail.The angry beast did straight resentThe 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 packOf Squire and baggage from his back;And blund'ring still with smarting rump,He gave the Knight's steed such a thumpAs made him reel. The Knight did stoop,And sat on further side aslope.This TALGOL viewing, who had nowBy 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-gownThe 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 wallAnd heavy brunt of cannon-ball.As Sancho on a blanket fell,And had no hurt, our's far'd as wellIn 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 rak'd, and flung about,To shake off bondage from his snout.His wrath inflam'd, boil'd o'er, and fromHis 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'dFrom squelch of Knight, and storm'd and rav'd,And vext the more because the harmsHe felt were 'gainst the law of arms:For men he always took to beHis 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 theyFor 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 noseFrom 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 flightHe strove t' escape pursuit of Knight;From whom he fled with as much hasteAnd 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 boreOne side of him; not that of bone,But much it's better, th' wooden one.He spying HUDIBRAS lie strow'dUpon 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' the 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 breachOf crowd and skin upon the wretch,Sole author of all detrimentHe and his fiddle underwent.

But RALPHO (who had now begunT' adventure resurrectionFrom heavy squelch, and had got upUpon his legs, with sprained crup)Looking about, beheld pernicionApproaching Knight from fell musician.He snatch'd his whinyard up, that fledWhen 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, flewTo rescue Knight from black and blew;Which, e'er he cou'd atchieve, his sconceThe 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'dOn th' wooden member such a load,That down it fell, and with it boreCROWDERO, whom it propp'd before.To him the Squire right nimbly run,And setting conquering foot uponHis trunk, thus spoke: What desp'rate frenzyMade thee (thou whelp of Sin!) to fancyThyself, 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 oke,And th' other half of thee as goodTo bear out blows, as that of wood?Cou'd not the whipping-post prevailWith 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 careMust 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 thumpKnock'd on his breast, as if 't had beenTo raise the spirits lodg'd within.They, waken'd with the noise, did flyFrom 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 leaveTo make out what y' already have;That's victory. The foe, for dreadOf your nine-worthiness, is fled:All, save CROWDERO, for whose sakeYou 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 eyeMust 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'dTo be, or be no more, a crowd.For though success did not conferJust title on the conqueror;Though dispensations were not strongConclusions, whether right or wrong,Although out-goings did confirm,And owning were but a mere term;Yet as the wicked have no rightTo 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 moreThan 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 rouze,And by degrees grow valorous.He star'd about, and seeing noneOf 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 payFor all the rest that ran away.But RALPHO now, in colder blood,His fury mildly thus withstood:Great Sir, quoth he, your mighty spiritIs rais'd too high: this slave does meritTo be the hangman's bus'ness, soonerThan from your hand to have the honourOf his destruction. I, that amA nothingness in deed and nameDid scorn to hurt his forfeit carcase,Or ill intreat his fiddle or case:Will you, great Sir, that glory blotIn cold blood which you gain'd in hot?Will you employ your conqu'ring swordTo break a fiddle and your word?For though I fought, and overcame,And quarter gave, 'twas in your name.For great commanders only ownWhat'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 lessThan both might have of selfishness.This pow'r which, now alive, with dreadHe trembles at, if he were dead,Wou'd 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, 'twou'd wrong your valour much,To say it needs or fears a crutch.Great conquerors greater glory gainBy foes in triumph led, than slain:The laurels that adorn their browsAre pull'd from living not dead boughs,And living foes: the greatest fameOf 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 farTo 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 dislikeHis 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 lessY' have power to hang him when you please.This has been often done by someOf our great conqu'rors, you know whom;And has by most of us been heldWise Justice, and to some reveal'd.For words and promises, that yokeThe conqueror, are quickly broke;Like SAMPSON's cuffs, though by his ownDirection and advice put on.For if we should fight for the CAUSEBy 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 declarePerfection-truths, such as these are.

This said, the high outrageous mettleOf Knight began to cool and settle.He lik'd the Squire's advice, and soonResolv'd to see the business doneAnd therefore charg'd him first to bindCROWDERO'S hands on rump behind,And to its former place and use,The wooden member to reduceBut force it take an oath before,Ne'er to bear arms against him more.

RALPHO dispatch'd with speedy haste,And having ty'd CROWDERO fast,He gave Sir Knight the end of cord,To lead the captive of his swordIn 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 boreThe trophee-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 standsAn ancient castle, that commandsTh' adjacent parts: in all the fabrickYou shall not see one stone nor a brick;But all of wood; by pow'rful spellOf 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 itThey never stand, but lie or sit;And yet so foul, that whoso is in,Is to the middle-leg in prison;In circle magical conflu'd,With walls of subtile air and wind,Which none are able to break thorough,Until they're freed by head of borough.Thither arriv'd, th' advent'rous KnightAnd bold Squire from their steeds alightAt th' outward wall, near which there standsA bastile, built to imprison hands;By strange enchantment made to fetterThe 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 wristIs made by beadle exorcist,The body feels the spur and switch,As if 'twere ridden post by witchAt 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 SquireThe fiddle and its spoils, the case,In manner of a trophee 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 feetBut th' other, that had broke the peaceAnd head of Knighthood, they release;Though a delinquent false and forged,Yet be'ing 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.