Part III: Canto I

The Knight and Squire resolve, at once,The one the other to renounce.They both approach the Lady's Bower;The Squire t'inform, the Knight to woo her.She treats them with a Masquerade,By Furies and Hobgoblins made;From which the Squire conveys the Knight,And steals him from himself, by Night.

'Tis true, no lover has that pow'rT' enforce a desperate amour,As he that has two strings t' his bow,And burns for love and money too;For then he's brave and resolute,Disdains to render in his suit,Has all his flames and raptures double,And hangs or drowns with half the trouble,While those who sillily pursue,The simple, downright way, and true,Make as unlucky applications,And steer against the stream their passions.Some forge their mistresses of stars,And when the ladies prove averse,And more untoward to be wonThan by CALIGULA the Moon,Cry out upon the stars, for doingIll offices to cross their wooing;When only by themselves they're hindred,For trusting those they made her kindred;And still, the harsher and hide-bounderThe damsels prove, become the fonder.For what mad lover ever dy'dTo gain a soft and gentle bride?Or for a lady tender-hearted,In purling streams or hemp departed?Leap'd headlong int' Elysium,Through th' windows of a dazzling room?But for some cross, ill-natur'd dame,The am'rous fly burnt in his flame.This to the Knight could be no news,With all mankind so much in use;Who therefore took the wiser course,To make the most of his amours,Resolv'd to try all sorts of ways,As follows in due time and place

No sooner was the bloody fight,Between the Wizard, and the Knight,With all th' appurtenances, over,But he relaps'd again t' a lover;As he was always wont to do,When h' had discomfited a foeAnd us'd the only antique philters,Deriv'd from old heroic tilters.But now triumphant, and victorious,He held th' atchievement was too gloriousFor such a conqueror to meddleWith petty constable or beadle,Or fly for refuge to the HostessOf th' Inns of Court and Chancery, Justice,Who might, perhaps reduce his causeTo th' ordeal trial of the laws,Where none escape, but such as brandedWith red-hot irons have past bare-handed;And, if they cannot read one verseI' th' Psalms, must sing it, and that's worse.He therefore judging it below him,To tempt a shame the Devil might owe him,Resolv'd to leave the Squire for bailAnd mainprize for him to the gaol,To answer, with his vessel, all,That might disastrously befall;And thought it now the fittest junctureTo give the Lady a rencounter,T' acquaint her 'with his expedition,And conquest o'er the fierce Magician;Describe the manner of the fray,And show the spoils he brought away,His bloody scourging aggravate,The number of his blows, and weight,All which might probably succeed,And gain belief h' had done the deed,Which he resolv'd t' enforce, and spareNo pawning of his soul to swear,But, rather than produce his back,To set his conscience on the rack,And in pursuance of his urgingOf articles perform'd and scourging,And all things else, his part,Demand deliv'ry of her heart,Her goods, and chattels, and good graces,And person up to his embraces.Thought he, the ancient errant knightsWon all their ladies hearts in fights;And cut whole giants into fritters,To put them into amorous twittersWhose stubborn bowels scorn'd to yieldUntil their gallants were half kill'dBut when their bones were drub'd so soreThey durst not woo one combat more,The ladies hearts began to melt,Subdu'd by blows their lovers felt.So Spanish heroes, with their lances,At once wound bulls and ladies' fancies;And he acquires the noblest spouseThat widows greatest herds of cows:Then what may I expect to do,Wh' have quell'd so vast a buffalo?

Mean while, the Squire was on his wayThe Knight's late orders to obey;Who sent him for a strong detachmentOf beadles, constables, and watchmen,T' attack the cunning-man fur plunder,Committed falsely on his lumber;When he, who had so lately sack'dThe enemy, had done the fact;Had rifled all his pokes and fobsOf gimcracks, whims, and jiggumbobs,When he, by hook or crook, had gather'd,And for his own inventions father'dAnd when they should, at gaol delivery,Unriddle one another's thievery,Both might have evidence enough,To render neither halter proof.He thought it desperate to tarry,And venture to be accessaryBut rather wisely slip his fetters,And leave them for the Knight, his betters.He call'd to mind th' unjust, foul playHe wou'd have offer'd him that day,To make him curry his own hide,Which no beast ever did beside,Without all possible evasion,But of the riding dispensation;And therefore much about the hourThe Knight (for reasons told before)Resolv'd to leave them to the furyOf Justice, and an unpack'd Jury,The Squire concurr'd t' abandon him,And serve him in the self-same trim;T' acquaint the Lady what h' had done,And what he meant to carry on;What project 'twas he went about,When SIDROPHEL and he fell out;His firm and stedfast Resolution,To swear her to an execution;To pawn his inward ears to marry her,And bribe the Devil himself to carry her;In which both dealt, as if they meantTheir Party-Saints to represent,Who never fail'd upon their sharingIn any prosperous arms-bearingTo lay themselves out to supplantEach other Cousin-German Saint.But, ere the Knight could do his part,The Squire had got so much the start,H' had to the Lady done his errand,And told her all his tricks afore-hand.Just as he finish'd his report,The Knight alighted in the court;And having ty'd his beast t' a pale,And taking time for both to stale,He put his band and beard in order,The sprucer to accost and board her;And now began t' approach the door,When she, wh' had spy'd him out beforeConvey'd th' informer out of sight,And went to entertain the KnightWith whom encount'ring, after longeesOf humble and submissive congees,And all due ceremonies paid,He strok'd his beard, and thus he said:

Madam, I do, as is my duty,Honour the shadow of your shoe-tye;And now am come to bring your earA present you'll be glad to hear:At least I hope so: the thing's done,Or may I never see the sun;For which I humbly now demandPerformance at your gentle handAnd that you'd please to do your part,As I have done mine, to my smart.

With that he shrugg'd his sturdy backAs if he felt his shoulders ake.

But she, who well enough knew what(Before he spoke) he would be at,Pretended not to apprehendThe mystery of what he mean'd;.And therefore wish'd him to expoundHis dark expressions, less profound.

Madam, quoth he, I come to proveHow much I've suffer'd for your love,Which (like your votary) to win,I have not spar'd my tatter'd skinAnd for those meritorious lashes,To claim your favour and good graces.

Quoth she, I do remember onceI freed you from th' inchanted sconce;And that you promis'd, for that favour,To bind your back to good behaviour,And, for my sake and service, vow'dTo lay upon't a heavy load,And what 'twould bear t' a scruple prove,As other Knights do oft make loveWhich, whether you have done or no,Concerns yourself, not me, to know.But if you have, I shall confess,Y' are honester than I could guess.

Quoth he, if you suspect my troth,I cannot prove it but by oath;And if you make a question on't,I'll pawn my soul that I have done't;And he that makes his soul his surety,I think, does give the best security.

Quoth she, Some say, the soul's secureAgainst distress and forfeitureIs free from action, and exemptFrom execution and contempt;And to be summon'd to appearIn th' other world's illegal here;And therefore few make any accountInt' what incumbrances they run'tFor most men carry things so evenBetween this World, and Hell, and Heaven,Without the least offence to either,They freely deal in all together;And equally abhor to quitThis world for both or both for it;And when they pawn and damn their souls,They are but pris'ners on paroles.

For that (quoth he) 'tis rational,Th' may be accountable in all:For when there is that intercourseBetween divine and human pow'rs,That all that we determine hereCommands obedience every where,When penalties may be commutedFor fines or ears, and executedIt follows, nothing binds so fastAs souls in pawn and mortgage pastFor oaths are th' only tests and sealsOf right and wrong, and true and false,And there's no other way to tryThe doubts of law and justice by.

(Quoth she) What is it you would swearThere's no believing till I hearFor, till they're understood all tales(Like nonsense) are not true nor false.

(Quoth he) When I resolv'd t' obeyWhat you commanded th' other day,And to perform my exercise,(As schools are wont) for your fair eyes,T' avoid all scruples in the case,I went to do't upon the place.But as the Castle is inchantedBy SIDROPHEL the Witch and hauntedBy evil spirits, as you know,Who took my Squire and me for two,Before I'd hardly time to layMy weapons by, and disarrayI heard a formidable noise,Loud as the Stentrophonick voice,That roar'd far off, Dispatch and strip,I'm ready with th' infernal whip,That shall divest thy ribs from skin,To expiate thy ling'ring sin.Th' hast broken perfidiously thy oath,And not perform'd thy plighted troth;But spar'd thy renegado back,Where th' hadst so great a prize at stake;Which now the fates have order'd meFor penance and revenge to flea,Unless thou presently make haste:Time is, time was: And there it ceas'd.With which, though startled, I confess,Yet th' horror of the thing was lessThan th' other dismal apprehensionOf interruption or prevention;And therefore, snatching up the rod,I laid upon my back a load;Resolv'd to spare no flesh and blood,To make my word and honour good;Till tir'd, and making truce at length,For new recruits of breath and strength,I felt the blows still ply'd as fastAs th' had been by lovers plac'd,In raptures of platonick lashing,And chaste contemplative bardashing;When facing hastily about,To stand upon my guard and scout,I found th' infernal Cunning-man,And th' under-witch, his CALIBAN,With scourges (like the Furies) arm'd,That on my outward quarters storm'd.In haste I snatch'd my weapon up,And gave their hellish rage a stop;Call'd thrice upon your name, and fellCourageously on SIDROPHEL;Who, now transform'd himself a bear,Began to roar aloud, and tear;When I as furiously press'd on,My weapon down his throat to run;Laid hold on him; but he broke loose,And turn'd himself into a goose;Div'd under water, in a pond,To hide himself from being found.In vain I sought him; but, as soonAs I perceiv'd him fled and gone,Prepar'd with equal haste and rage,His Under-sorcerer t' engage.But bravely scorning to defileMy sword with feeble blood and vile,I judg'd it better from a quick-Set hedge to cut a knotted stick,With which I furiously laid onTill, in a harsh and doleful tone,It roar'd, O hold for pity, SirI am too great a sufferer,Abus'd, as you have been, b' a witch,But conjur'd into a worse caprich;Who sends me out on many a jaunt,Old houses in the night to haunt,For opportunities t' improveDesigns of thievery or love;With drugs convey'd in drink or meat,All teats of witches counterfeit;Kill pigs and geese with powder'd glass,And make it for enchantment pass;With cow-itch meazle like a leper,And choak with fumes of guiney pepper;Make leachers and their punks with dewtry,Commit fantastical advowtry;Bewitch Hermetick-men to runStark staring mad with manicon;Believe mechanick VirtuosiCan raise 'em mountains in POTOSI;And, sillier than the antick fools,Take treasure for a heap of coals:Seek out for plants with signatures,To quack of universal cures:With figures ground on panes of glassMake people on their heads to pass;And mighty heaps of coin increase,Reflected from a single piece,To draw in fools, whose nat'ral itchesIncline perpetually to witches;And keep me in continual fears,And danger of my neck and ears;When less delinquents have been scourg'd,And hemp on wooden anvil forg'd,Which others for cravats have wornAbout their necks, and took a turn.

I pity'd the sad punishmentThe wretched caitiff underwent,And left my drubbing of his bones,Too great an honour for pultrones;For Knights are bound to feel no blowsFrom paultry and unequal foes,Who, when they slash, and cut to pieces,Do all with civilest addresses:Their horses never give a blow,But when they make a leg, and bow.I therefore spar'd his flesh, and prest himAbout the witch with many a. question.

Quoth he, For many years he droveA kind of broking-trade in love;Employ'd in all th' intrigues, and trustOf feeble, speculative lust:Procurer to th' extravagancy,And crazy ribaldry of fancy,By those the Devil had forsook,As things below him to provoke.But b'ing a virtuoso, ableTo smatter, quack, and cant, and dabble,He held his talent most adroitFor any mystical exploit;As others of his tribe had done,And rais'd their prices three to one:For one predicting pimp has th' oddsOf chauldrons of plain downright bawds.But as an elf (the Devil's valet)Is not so slight a thing to get;For those that do his bus'ness best,In hell are us'd the ruggedest;Before so meriting a personCou'd get a grant, but in reversion,He serv'd two prenticeships, and longer,I' th' myst'ry of a lady-monger.For (as some write) a witch's ghost,As soon as from the body loos'd,Becomes a puney-imp itselfAnd is another witch's elf.He, after searching far and near,At length found one in LANCASHIREWith whom he bargain'd before-hand,And, after hanging, entertained;Since which h' has play'd a thousand feats,And practis'd all mechanick cheats,Transform'd himself to th' ugly shapesOf wolves and bears, baboons and apes,Which he has vary'd more than witches,Or Pharaoh's wizards cou'd their switches;And all with whom h' has had to do,Turn'd to as monstrous figures too.Witness myself, whom h' has abus'd,And to this beastly shape reduc'd,By feeding me on beans and pease,He crams in nasty crevices,And turns to comfits by his arts,To make me relish for disserts,And one by one, with shame and fear,Lick up the candy'd provender.Beside -- But as h' was running on,To tell what other feats h' had done,The Lady stopt his full career,And told him now 'twas time to hearIf half those things (said she) be true --They're all, (quoth he,) I swear by you.Why then (said she,) That SIDROPHELHas damn'd himself to th' pit of Hell;Who, mounted on a broom, the nagAnd hackney of a Lapland hag,In quest of you came hither post,Within an hour (I'm sure) at most;Who told me all you swear and say,Quite contrary another way;Vow'd that you came to him to knowIf you should carry me or no;And would have hir'd him, and his imps,To be your match-makers and pimps,T' engage the Devil on. your side,And steal (like PROSERPINE) your bride.But he, disdaining to embrace.So filthy a design and base,You fell to vapouring and huffingAnd drew upon him like a ruffin;Surpriz'd him meanly, unprepar'd,Before h' had time to mount his guard;And left him dead upon the ground,With many a bruise and desperate wound:Swore you had broke and robb'd his house,And stole his talismanique louse,And all his new-found old inventions;.With flat felonious intentions;Which he could bring out where he had,And what he bought them for, and paid.His flea, his morpion, and punese,H' had gotten for his proper ease,And all perfect minutes made,By th' ablest artist of the trade;Which (he could prove it) since he lost,He has been eaten up almost;And all together might amountTo many hundreds on account;For which h' had got sufficient warrantTo seize the malefactors errant,Without capacity of bail,But of a cart's or horse's tail;And did not doubt to bring the wretchesTo serve for pendulums to watches;Which, modern virtuosos say,Incline to hanging every way.Beside, he swore, and swore 'twas true,That, e're he went in quest of you,He set a figure to discoverIf you were fled to RYE or DOVER;And found it clear, that, to betrayYourselves and me, you fled this way;And that he was upon pursuit,To take you somewhere hereabout.He vow' d he had intelligenceOf all that past before and since;And found that, e'er you came to him,.Y' had been engaging life and limbAbout a case of tender conscience,Where both abounded in your own sense:Till RALPHO, by his light and grace,Had clear'd all scruples in the case;And prov'd that you might swear and ownWhatever's by the wicked done,For which, most basely to requiteThe service of his gifts and light,You strove to oblige him, by main force,To scourge his ribs instead of yours;But that he stood upon his guard,And all your vapouring out-dar'd;For which, between you both, the featHas never been perform'd as yet.

While thus the Lady talk'd, the KnightTurn'd th' outside of his eyes to white;(As men of inward light are wontTo turn their opticks in upon 't)He wonder'd how she came to knowWhat he had done, and meant to do;Held up his affidavit-hand,As if h' had been to be arraign'd;Cast t'wards the door a look,In dread of SIDROPHEL, and spoke:

Madam, if but one word be trueOf all the Wizard has told you,Or but one single circumstanceIn all th' apocryphal romance,May dreadful earthquakes swallow downThis vessel, that is all your own;Or may the heavens fall, and coverThese reliques of your constant lover.

You have provided well, quoth she,(I thank you) for yourself and me,And shown your presbyterian witsJump punctual with the Jesuits;A most compendious way, and civil,At once to cheat the world, the Devil,And Heaven and Hell, yourselves, and thoseOn whom you vainly think t' impose.Why then (quoth he) may Hell surprize --That trick (said she) will not pass twice:I've learn'd how far I'm to believeYour pinning oaths upon your sleeve.But there's a better way of clearingWhat you would prove than downright swearing:For if you have perform'd the feat,The blows are visible as yet,Enough to serve for satisfactionOf nicest scruples in the action:And if you can produce those knobs,Although they're but the witch's drubs,I'll pass them all upon account,As if your natural self had done'tProvided that they pass th' opinionOf able juries of old womenWho, us'd to judge all matter of factsFor bellies, may do so for backs,

Madam, (quoth he,) your love's a million;To do is less than to be willing,As I am, were it in my power,T' obey, what you command, and more:But for performing what you bid,I thank you as much as if I did.You know I ought to have a careTo keep my wounds from taking air:For wounds in those that are all heart,Are dangerous in any part.

I find (quoth she) my goods and chattelsAre like to prove but mere drawn battels;For still the longer we contend,We are but farther off the end.But granting now we should agree,What is it you expect from me?Your plighted faith (quoth he) and wordYou past in heaven on record,Where all contracts, to have and t' hold,Are everlastingly enroll'd:And if 'tis counted treason hereTo raze records, 'tis much more there.Quoth she, There are no bargains driv'n,Or marriages clapp'd up, in Heav'n,And that's the reason, as some guess,There is no heav'n in marriages;Two things that naturally pressToo narrowly to be at ease.Their bus'ness there is only love,Which marriage is not like t' improve:Love, that's too generous to abideTo be against its nature ty'd;Or where 'tis of itself inclin'd,It breaks loose when it is confin'd;And like the soul, it's harbourer.Debarr'd the freedom of the air,Disdains against its will to stay,But struggles out, and flies away;And therefore never can complyTo endure the matrimonial tie,That binds the female and the male,Where th' one is but the other's bail;Like Roman gaolers, when they slept,Chain'd to the prisoners they keptOf which the true and faithfull'st loverGives best security to suffer.Marriage is but a beast, some say,That carries double in foul way;And therefore 'tis not to b' admir'd,It should so suddenly be tir'd;A bargain at a venture made,Between two partners in a trade;(For what's inferr'd by t' have and t' hold,But something past away, and sold?)That as it makes but one of two,Reduces all things else as low;And, at the best, is but a martBetween the one and th' other part,That on the marriage-day is paid,Or hour of death, the bet is laid;And all the rest of better or worse,Both are but losers out of purse.For when upon their ungot heirsTh' entail themselves, and all that's theirs,What blinder bargain e'er was driv'n,Or wager laid at six and seven?To pass themselves away, and turnTheir childrens' tenants e're they're born?Beg one another idiotTo guardians, e'er they are begot;Or ever shall, perhaps, by th' one,Who's bound to vouch 'em for his own,Though got b' implicit generation,And gen'ral club of all the nation;For which she's fortify'd no lessThan all the island, with four seas;Exacts the tribute of her dower,in ready insolence and power;And makes him pass away to haveAnd hold, to her, himself, her slave,More wretched than an ancient villain,Condemn'd to drudgery and tilling;While all he does upon the by,She is not bound to justify,Nor at her proper cost and chargeMaintain the feats he does at large.Such hideous sots were those obedientOld vassals to their ladies regent;To give the cheats the eldest handIn foul play by the laws o' th' land;For which so many a legal cuckoldHas been run down in courts and truckeld:A law that most unjustly yokesAll Johns of Stiles to Joans of Nokes,Without distinction of degree,Condition, age, or quality:Admits no power of revocation,Nor valuable consideration,Nor writ of error, nor reverseOf Judgment past, for better or worse:Will not allow the priviledgesThat beggars challenge under hedges,Who, when they're griev'd, can make dead horsesTheir spiritual judges of divorces;While nothing else but Rem in ReCan set the proudest wretches free;A slavery beyond enduring,But that 'tis of their own procuring.As spiders never seek the fly,But leave him, of himself, t' applySo men are by themselves employ'd,To quit the freedom they enjoy'd,And run their necks into a noose,They'd break 'em after, to break loose;As some whom Death would not depart,Have done the feat themselves by art;Like Indian widows, gone to bedIn flaming curtains to the dead;And men as often dangled for't,And yet will never leave the sport.Nor do the ladies want excuseFor all the stratagems they useTo gain the advantage of the set,And lurch the amorous rook and cheatFor as the Pythagorean soulRuns through all beasts, and fish and fowl,And has a smack of ev'ry one,So love does, and has ever done;And therefore, though 'tis ne'er so fond,Takes strangely to the vagabond.'Tis but an ague that's reverst,Whose hot fit takes the patient first,That after burns with cold as muchAs ir'n in GREENLAND does the touch;Melts in the furnace of desireLike glass, that's but the ice of fire;And when his heat of fancy's over,Becomes as hard and frail a lover.For when he's with love-powder laden,And prim'd and cock'd by Miss or Madam,The smallest sparkle of an eyeGives fire to his artillery;And off the loud oaths go; but whileThey're in the very act, recoil.Hence 'tis so few dare take their chanceWithout a sep'rate maintenance;And widows, who have try'd one lover,Trust none again, 'till th' have made over;Or if they do, before they marry,The foxes weigh the geese they carry;And e're they venture o'er a stream,Know how to size themselves and them;Whence wittiest ladies always chooseTo undertake the heaviest gooseFor now the world is grown so wary,That few of either sex dare marry,But rather trust on tick t' amours,The cross and pile for better or worse;A mode that is held honourable,As well as French, and fashionable:For when it falls out for the best,Where both are incommoded least,In soul and body two unite,To make up one hermaphrodite,Still amorous, and fond, and billing,Like PHILIP and MARY on a shilling,Th' have more punctilios and caprichesBetween the petticoat and breeches,More petulant extravagances,Than poets make 'em in romances.Though when their heroes 'spouse the dames,We hear no more charms and flames:For then their late attracts decline,And turn as eager as prick'd wine;And all their catterwauling tricks,In earnest to as jealous piques;Which the ancients wisely signify'd,By th' yellow mantos of the bride:For jealousy is but a kindOf clap and grincam of the mind,The natural effects of love,As other flames and aches prove;But all the mischief is, the doubtOn whose account they first broke out.For though Chineses go to bed,And lie in, in their ladies stead,And for the pains they took before,Are nurs'd and pamper'd to do moreOur green men do it worse, when th' hapTo fail in labour of a clapBoth lay the child to one another:But who's the father, who the mother,'Tis hard to say in multitudes,Or who imported the French goods.But health and sickness b'ing all one,Which both engag'd before to own,And are not with their bodies boundTo worship, only when they're sound,Both give and take their equal sharesOf all they suffer by false wares:A fate no lover can divertWith all his caution, wit, and art.For 'tis in vain to think to guessAt women by appearances,That paint and patch their imperfectionsOf intellectual complexions,And daub their tempers o'er with washesAs artificial as their faces;Wear under vizard-masks their talentsAnd mother-wits before their gallants,Until they're hamper'd in the noose,Too fast to dream of breaking loose;When all the flaws they strove to hideAre made unready with the bride,That with her wedding-clothes undressesHer complaisance and gentilesses,Tries all her arts to take upon herThe government from th' easy owner;Until the wretch is glad to waveHis lawful right, and turn her slave;Find all his having, and his holding,Reduc'd t' eternal noise and scolding;The conjugal petard, that tearsDown all portcullises of ears,And make the volley of one tongueFor all their leathern shields too strongWhen only arm'd with noise and nails,The female silk-worms ride the males,Transform 'em into rams and goats,Like Sirens, with their charming notes;Sweet as a screech-owl's serenade,Or those enchanting murmurs madeBy th' husband mandrake and the wife,Both bury'd (like themselves) alive.

Quoth he, These reasons are but strainsOf wanton, over-heated brainsWhich ralliers, in their wit, or drink,Do rather wheedle with than thinkMan was not man in paradise,Until he was created twice,And had his better half, his bride,Carv'd from the original, his side,T' amend his natural defects,And perfect his recruited sex;Inlarge his breed at once, and lessenThe pains and labour of increasing,By changing them for other cares,As by his dry'd-up paps appears.His body, that stupendous frame,Of all the world the anagramIs of two equal parts compact,In shape and symmetry exact,Of which the left and female sideIs to the manly right a bride;Both join'd together with such art,That nothing else but death can part.Those heav'nly attracts of yours, your eyes,And face, that all the world surprize,That dazzle all that look upon ye,And scorch all other ladies tawny,Those ravishing and charming gracesAre all made up of two half faces,That in a mathematick line,Like those in other heavens, join,Of which if either grew alone,T' would fright as much to look upon:And so would that sweet bud your lip,Without the other's fellowship.Our noblest senses act by pairs;Two eyes to see; to hear, two ears;Th' intelligencers of the mind,To wait upon the soul design'd,But those that serve the body alone,Are single, and confin'd to one.The world is but two parts, that meetAnd close at th' equinoctial fit;And so are all the works of nature,Stamp'd with her signature on matter,Which all her creatures, to a leaf,Or smallest blade of grass receive;All which sufficiently declare,How entirely marriage is her care,The only method that she usesIn all the wonders she produces:And those that take their rules from her,Can never be deceiv'd, nor err.For what secures the civil life,But pawns of children, and a wife?That lie like hostages at stake,To pay for all men undertake;To whom it is as necessaryAs to be born and breathe, to marry;So universal all mankind,In nothing else, is of one mind.For in what stupid age, or nation,Was marriage ever out of fashion?Unless among the Amazons,Or cloister'd friars, and vestal nuns;Or Stoicks, who to bar the freaksAnd loose excesses of the sex,Prepost'rously wou'd have all womenTurn'd up to all the world in common.Though men would find such mortal feuds,In sharing of their publick goods,'Twould put them to more charge of lives,Than they're supply'd with now by wives;Until they graze, and wear their clothes,As beasts do, of their native growths:For simple wearing of their hornsWill not suffice to serve their turns.For what can we pretend t' inherit,Unless the marriage-deed will bear it?Could claim no right, to lands or rents,But for our parents' settlements;Had been but younger sons o' th' earth,Debarr'd it all, but for our birth.What honours or estates of peers,Cou'd be preserv'd but by their heirsAnd what security maintainsTheir right and title, but the banes?What crowns could be hereditary,If greatest monarchs did not marry.And with their consorts consummateTheir weightiest interests of state?For all the amours of princes areBut guarantees of peace or war,Or what but marriage has a charmThe rage of empires to disarm,Make blood and desolation cease,And fire and sword unite in peace,When all their fierce contest for forageConclude in articles of marriage?Nor does the genial bed provideLess for the int'rests of the bride;Who else had not the least pretenceT' as much as due benevolence;Could no more title take upon herTo virtue, quality, and honour.Than ladies-errant, unconfin'd,And feme-coverts t' all mankindAll women would be of one piece,The virtuous matron and the miss;The nymphs of chaste Diana's train,The same with those in LEWKNER's Lane;But for the difference marriage makes'Twixt wives and ladies of the lakes;Besides the joys of place and birth,The sex's paradise on earth;A privilege so sacred held,That none will to their mothers yield;But rather than not go before,Abandon Heaven at the door.And if th' indulgent law allowsA greater freedom to the spouse,The reason is, because the wifeRuns greater hazards of her life;Is trusted with the form and matterOf all mankind by careful nature;Where man brings nothing but the stuffShe frames the wond'rous fabric of;Who therefore, in a streight, may freelyDemand the clergy of her belly,And make it save her the same wayIt seldom misses to betray;Unless both parties wisely enterInto the liturgy indenture,And though some fits of small contestSometimes fall out among the best,That is no more than ev'ry loverDoes from his hackney-lady suffer;That makes no breach of faith and love,But rather (sometimes) serves t' improve.For as in running, ev'ry paceIs but between two legs a race,In which both do their uttermostTo get before, and win the post,Yet when they're at their race's ends,They're still as kind and constant friends,And, to relieve their weariness,By turns give one another ease;So all those false alarms of strifeBetween the husband and the wife,And little quarrels, often proveTo be but new recruits of love;When those wh' are always kind or coy,In time must either tire or cloy.Nor are their loudest clamours more,Than as they're relish'd, sweet or sour;Like musick, that proves bad or good;According as 'tis understood.In all amours, a lover burnsWith frowns as well as smiles by turns;And hearts have been as aft with sullenAs charming looks surpriz'd and stolen.Then why should more bewitching clamourSome lovers not as much enamour?For discords make the sweetest airsAnd curses are a kind of pray'rs;Too slight alloys for all those grandFelicities by marriage gain'd.For nothing else has pow'r to settleTh' interests of love perpetual;An act and deed, that that makes one heartBecomes another's counter-part,And passes fines on faith and love,Inroll'd and register'd above,To seal the slippery knots of vows,Which nothing else but death can loose.And what security's too strong,To guard that gentle heart from wrong,That to its friend is glad to passItself away, and all it has;And, like an anchorite, gives overThis world for th' heaven of lover?I grant (quoth she) there are some fewWho take that course, and find it trueBut millions whom the same does sentenceTo heav'n b' another way -- repentance.Love's arrows are but shot at rovers;Though all they hit, they turn to lovers;And all the weighty consequentsDepend upon more blind events,Than gamesters, when they play a setWith greatest cunning at piquet,Put out with caution, but take inThey know not what, unsight, unseen,For what do lovers, when they're fastIn one another's arms embrac't,But strive to plunder, and conveyEach other, like a prize, away?To change the property of selves,As sucking children are by elves?And if they use their persons so,What will they to their fortunes do?Their fortunes! the perpetual aimsOf all their extasies and flames.For when the money's on the book,And, All my worldly goods -- but spoke,(The formal livery and seisinThat puts a lover in possession,)To that alone the bridegroom's wedded;The bride a flam, that's superseded.To that their faith is still made good,And all the oaths to us they vow'd:For when we once resign our pow'rs,W' have nothing left we can call ours:Our money's now become the MissOf all your lives and services;And we forsaken, and postpon'd;But bawds to what before we own'd;Which, as it made y' at first gallant us,So now hires others to supplant us,Until 'tis all turn'd out of doors,(As we had been) for new amours;For what did ever heiress yetBy being born to lordships get?When the more lady sh' is of manours,She's but expos'd to more trepanners,Pays for their projects and designs,And for her own destruction fines;And does but tempt them with her riches,To use her as the Dev'l does witches;Who takes it for a special graceTo be their cully for a space,That when the time's expir'd, the drazelsFor ever may become his vassals:So she, bewitch'd by rooks and spirits,Betrays herself, and all sh' inherits;Is bought and sold, like stolen goods,By pimps, and match-makers, and bawds,Until they force her to convey,And steal the thief himself away.These are the everlasting fruitsOf all your passionate love-suits,Th' effects of all your amorous fanciesTo portions and inheritances;Your love-sick rapture for fruitionOf dowry, jointure, and tuition;To which you make address and courtship;Ad with your bodies strive to worship,That th' infants' fortunes may partakeOf love too, for the mother's sake.For these you play at purposes,And love your love's with A's and B's:For these at Beste and L'Ombre woo,And play for love and money too;Strive who shall be the ablest manAt right gallanting of a fan;And who the most genteelly bredAt sucking of a vizard-head;How best t' accost us in all quarters;T' our question -- and -- command new GartersAnd solidly discourse uponAll sorts of dresses, Pro and Con.For there's no mystery nor trade,But in the art of love is made:And when you have more debts to payThan Michaelmas and Lady-Day,And no way possible to do't,But love and oaths, and restless suit,To us y' apply to pay the scoresOf all your cully'd, past amours;Act o'er your flames and darts again,And charge us with your wounds and pain;Which others influences long sinceHave charm'd your noses with and shins;For which the surgeon is unpaid,And like to be, without our aid.Lord! what an am'rous thing is want!How debts and mortgages inchant!What graces must that lady haveThat can from executions save!What charms that can reverse extent,And null decree and exigent!What magical attracts and graces,That can redeem from Scire facias!From bonds and statutes can discharge,And from contempts of courts enlarge!These are the highest excellenciesOf all your true or false pretences:And you would damn yourselves, and swearAs much t' an hostess dowager,Grown fat and pursy by retailOf pots of beer and bottled ale;And find her fitter for your turn;For fat is wondrous apt to burn;Who at your flames would soon take fire,Relent, and melt to your desire,And like a candle in the socket,Dissolve her graces int' your pocket.

By this time 'twas grown dark and late,When they heard a knocking at the gate,Laid on in haste with such a powder,The blows grew louder still and louder;Which HUDIBRAS, as if th' had beenBestow'd as freely on his skin,Expounding, by his inward light,Or rather more prophetick fright,To be the Wizard, come to search,And take him napping in the lurchTurn'd pale as ashes or a clout;But why or wherefore is a doubtFor men will tremble, and turn paler,With too much or too little valour.His heart laid on, as if it try'dTo force a passage through his side,Impatient (as he vow'd) to wait 'em,But in a fury to fly at 'em;And therefore beat, and laid about,To find a cranny to creep out.But she, who saw in what a takingThe Knight was by his furious quaking,Undaunted cry'd, Courage, Sir Knight;Know, I'm resolv'd to break no riteOf hospitality t' a stranger;But, to secure you out of danger,Will here myself stand sentinel,To guard this pass 'gainst SIDROPHEL.Women, you know, do seldom failTo make the stoutest men turn tail;And bravely scorn to turn their backsUpon the desp'ratest attacks.At this the Knight grew resoluteAs IRONSIDE and HARDIKNUTEHis fortitude began to rally,And out he cry'd aloud to sally.But she besought him to conveyHis courage rather out o' th' way,And lodge in ambush on the floor,Or fortify'd behind a door;That if the enemy shou'd enter,He might relieve her in th' adventure.

Mean while they knock'd against the doorAs fierce as at the gate before,Which made the Renegado KnightRelapse again t' his former fright.He thought it desperate to stayTill th' enemy had forc'd his way,But rather post himself, to serveThe lady, for a fresh reserveHis duty was not to dispute,But what sh' had order'd execute;Which he resolv'd in haste t' obey,And therefore stoutly march'd away;And all h' encounter'd fell upon,Though in the dark, and all alone;Till fear, that braver feats performsThan ever courage dar'd in arms,Had drawn him up before a passTo stand upon his guard, and face:This he courageously invaded,And having enter'd, barricado'd,Insconc'd himself as formidableAs could be underneath a table,Where he lay down in ambush close,T' expect th' arrival of his foes.Few minutes he had lain perdue,To guard his desp'rate avenue,Before he heard a dreadful shout,As loud as putting to the rout,With which impatiently alarm'd,He fancy'd th' enemy had storm'd,And, after ent'ring, SIDROPHELWas fall'n upon the guards pell-mellHe therefore sent out all his senses,To bring him in intelligences,Which vulgars, out of ignorance,Mistake for falling in a trance;But those that trade in geomancy,Affirm to be the strength of fancy;In which the Lapland Magi deal,And things incredible reveal.Mean while the foe beat up his quarters,And storm'd the out-works of his fortress:And as another, of the sameDegree and party, in arms and fame,That in the same cause had engag'd,At war with equal conduct wag'd,By vent'ring only but to thrustHis head a span beyond his post,B' a gen'ral of the cavaliersWas dragg'd thro' a window by th' ears;So he was serv'd in his redoubt,And by the other end pull'd out.

Soon as they had him at their mercy,They put him to the cudgel fiercely,As if they'd scorn'd to trade or barter,By giving or by taking quarter:They stoutly on his quarters laid,Until his scouts came in t' his aid.For when a man is past his sense,There's no way to reduce him thence,But twinging him by th' ears or nose,Or laying on of heavy blows;And if that will not do the deed,To burning with hot irons proceed.No sooner was he come t' himself,But on his neck a sturdy elfClapp'd, in a trice, his cloven hoof,And thus attack'd him with reproof;Mortal, thou art betray'd to usB' our friend, thy Evil Genius,Who, for thy horrid perjuries,Thy breach of faith, and turning lies,The Brethren's privilege (againstThe wicked) on themselves, the Saints,Has here thy wretched carcase sentFor just revenge and punishment;Which thou hast now no way to lessen,But by an open, free confession;For if we catch thee failing once,'Twill fall the heavier on thy bones.

What made thee venture to betray,And filch the lady's heart away?To Spirit her to matrimony? --That which contracts all matches -- money.It was th' inchantment oft her richesThat made m' apply t' your croney witches,That, in return, wou'd pay th' expence,The wear and tear of conscience;Which I cou'd have patch'd up, and turn'd,For the hundredth part of what I earn'd.

Didst thou not love her then? Speak true.No more (quoth he) than I love you. --How would'st th' have us'd her, and her money? --First turn'd her up to alimony;And laid her dowry out in law,To null her jointure with a flaw,Which I before-hand had agreedT' have put, on purpose in the deed;And bar her widow's making overT' a friend in trust, or private lover.

What made thee pick and chuse her out,T' employ their sorceries about? --That which makes gamesters play with thoseWho have least wit, and most to lose.

But didst thou scourge thy vessel thus,As thou hast damn'd thyself to us?

I see you take me for an ass:'Tis true, I thought the trick wou'd passUpon a woman well enough,As 't has been often found by proof,Whose humours are not to be won,But when they are impos'd upon.For love approves of all they doThat stand for candidates, and woo.

Why didst thou forge those shameful liesOf bears and witches in disguise?

That is no more than authors giveThe rabble credit to believe:A trick of following their leaders,To entertain their gentle readers;And we have now no other wayOf passing all we do or sayWhich, when 'tis natural and true,Will be believ'd b' a very few,Beside the danger of offence,The fatal enemy of sense.

Why did thou chuse that cursed sin,Hypocrisy, to set up in?

Because it is in the thriving'st calling,The only Saints-bell that rings all in;In which all churches are concern'd,And is the easiest to be learn'd:For no degrees, unless th' employ't,Can ever gain much, or enjoy't:A gift that is not only ableTo domineer among the rabble,But by the laws impower'd to rout,And awe the greatest that stand out;Which few hold forth against, for fearTheir hands should slip, and come too near;For no sin else among the SaintsIs taught so tenderly against.

What made thee break thy plighted vows? --That which makes others break a house,And hang, and scorn ye all, beforeEndure the plague of being poor.

Quoth he, I see you have more tricksThan all your doating politicks,That are grown old, and out of fashion,Compar'd with your New Reformation;That we must come to school to you,To learn your more refin'd, and new.

Quoth he, If you will give me leaveTo tell you what I now perceive,You'll find yourself an arrant chouse,If y' were but at a Meeting-House. --'Tis true, quoth he, we ne'er come there,Because, w' have let 'em out by th' year.

Truly, quoth he, you can't imagineWhat wond'rous things they will engage inThat as your fellow-fiends in HellWere angels all before they fell,So are you like to be agen,Compar'd with th' angels of us men.

Quoth he, I am resolv'd to beThy scholar in this mystery;And therefore first desire to knowSome principles on which you go.

What makes a knave a child of God,And one of us? -- A livelihood.What renders beating out of brains,And murder, godliness? -- Great gains.

What's tender conscience? -- 'Tis a botch,That will not bear the gentlest touch;But breaking out, dispatches moreThan th' epidemical'st plague-sore.

What makes y' encroach upon our trade,And damn all others? -- To be paid.

What's orthodox, and true, believingAgainst a conscience? -- A good living.

What makes rebelling against KingsA Good Old Cause? -- Administrings.

What makes all doctrines plain and clear? --About two hundred pounds a year.

And that which was prov'd true before,Prove false again? -- Two hundred more.

What makes the breaking of all oathsA holy duty? -- Food and cloaths.

What laws and freedom, persecution? --B'ing out of pow'r, and contribution.

What makes a church a den of thieves? --A dean and chapter, and white sleeves.

Ad what would serve, if those were gone,To make it orthodox? -- Our own.

What makes morality a crime,The most notorious of the time;Morality, which both the Saints,And wicked too, cry out against? --Cause grace and virtue are withinProhibited degrees of kinAnd therefore no true Saint allows,They shall be suffer'd to espouse;For Saints can need no conscience,That with morality dispense;As virtue's impious, when 'tis rootedIn nature only, and not imputedBut why the wicked should do so,We neither know, or care to do.

What's liberty of conscience,I' th' natural and genuine sense?'Tis to restore, with more security,Rebellion to its ancient purity;And christian liberty reduceTo th' elder practice of the Jews.For a large conscience is all one,And signifies the same with none.

It is enough (quoth he) for once,And has repriev'd thy forfeit bones:NICK MACHIAVEL had ne'er a trick,(Though he gave his name to our Old Nick,)But was below the least of these,That pass i' th' world for holiness.

This said, the furies and the lightIn th' instant vanish'd out of sight,And left him in the dark alone,With stinks of brimstone and his own.

The Queen of Night, whose large commandRules all the sea, and half the land,And over moist and crazy brains,In high spring-tides, at midnight reigns,Was now declining to the west,To go to bed, and take her rest;When HUDIBRAS, whose stubborn blowsDeny'd his bones that soft repose,Lay still expecting worse and more,Stretch'd out at length upon the floor;And though he shut his eyes as fastAs if h' had been to sleep his last,Saw all the shapes that fear or wizardsDo make the Devil wear for vizards,And pricking up his ears, to harkIf he cou'd hear too in the dark,Was first invaded with a groanAnd after in a feeble tone,These trembling words: Unhappy wretch!What hast thou gotten by this fetch;For all thy tricks, in this new trade,Thy holy brotherhood o' th' blade?By sauntring still on some adventure,And growing to thy horse a Centaure?To stuff thy skin with swelling knobsOf cruel and hard-wooded drubs?For still th' hast had the worst on't yet,As well in conquest as defeat.Night is the sabbath of mankind,To rest the body and the mind,Which now thou art deny'd to keep,And cure thy labour'd corpse with sleep.The Knight, who heard the words, explain'd,As meant to him, this reprimand,Because the character did hitPoint-blank upon his case so fit;Believ'd it was some drolling spright,That staid upon the guard that night,And one of those h' had seen, and feltThe drubs he had so freely dealt;When, after a short pause and groan,The doleful Spirit thus went on:

This 'tis t' engage with dogs and bearsPell-mell together by the ears,And, after painful bangs and knocks,To lie in limbo in the stocks,And from the pinnacle of gloryFall headlong into purgatory.

(Thought he, this devil's full of malice,That in my late disasters rallies:)Condemn'd to whipping, but declin'd it,By being more heroic-minded:And at a riding handled worse,With treats more slovenly and coarse:Engag'd with fiends in stubborn wars,And hot disputes with conjurers;And when th' hadst bravely won the day,Wast fain to steal thyself away.

(I see, thought he, this shameless elfWou'd fain steal me too from myself,That impudently dares to ownWhat I have suffer'd for and done,)And now but vent'ring to betray,Hast met with vengeance the same way.

Thought he, how does the Devil knowWhat 'twas that I design'd to do?His office of intelligence,His oracles, are ceas'd long since;And he knows nothing of the Saints,But what some treacherous spy acquaints.This is some pettifogging fiend,Some under door-keeper's friend's friend,That undertakes to understand,And juggles at the second-hand;And now would pass for Spirit Po,And all mens' dark concerns foreknow.I think I need not fear him for't;These rallying devils do no hurt.With that he rouz'd his drooping heart,And hastily cry'd out, What art?A wretch (quoth he) whom want of graceHas brought to this unhappy place.

I do believe thee, quoth the Knight;Thus far I'm sure th' art in the right;And know what 'tis that troubles thee,Better than thou hast guess'd of me.Thou art some paultry, black-guard spright,Condemn'd to drudg'ry in the nightThou hast no work to do in th' houseNor half-penny to drop in shoes;Without the raising of which sum,You dare not be so troublesome,To pinch the slatterns black and blue,For leaving you their work to do.This is your bus'ness good Pug-Robin;And your diversion dull dry-bobbing,T' entice fanaticks in the dirt,And wash them clean in ditches for't;Of which conceit you are so proud,At ev'ry jest you laugh aloud,As now you wou'd have done by me,But that I barr'd your raillery.

Sir (quoth the voice) y'are no such SophiAs you would have the world judge of ye.If you design to weigh our talentsI' the standard of your own false balance,Or think it possible to knowUs ghosts as well as we do you;We, who have been the everlastingCompanions of your drubs and basting,And never left you in contest,With male or female, man or beast,But prov'd as true t' ye, and entire,In all adventures, as your Squire.

Quoth he, That may be said as trueBy the idlest pug of all your crew:For none cou'd have betray'd us worseThan those allies of ours and yours.But I have sent him for a tokenTo your Low-Country HOGEN-MOGEN,To whose infernal shores I hopeHe'll swing like skippers in a rope.And, if y' have been more just to me(As I am apt to think) than he,I am afraid it is as true,What th' ill-affected say of you:Y' have spous'd the Covenant and Cause,By holding up your cloven paws.

Sir, quoth the voice, 'tis true, I grant,We made and took the Covenant;But that no more concerns the CauseThan other perj'ries do the laws,Which when they're prov'd in open court,Wear wooden peccadillo's for't:And that's the reason Cov'nantersHold up their hands like rogues at bars.

I see, quoth HUDIBRAS, from whenceThese scandals of the Saints commence,That are but natural effectsOf Satan's malice, and his sects,Those Spider-Saints, that hang by threads,Spun out o' th' intrails of their heads.

Sir, quoth the voice, that may as trueAnd properly be said of you,Whose talents may compare with either,Or both the other put together.For all the Independents do,Is only what you forc'd 'em to;You, who are not content aloneWith tricks to put the Devil down,But must have armies rais'd to backThe gospel-work you undertake;As if artillery, and edge-tools,Were the only engines to save souls;While he, poor devil, has no pow'rBy force to run down and devour;Has ne'er a Classis; cannot sentenceTo stools or poundage of repentance;Is ty'd up only to design,T' entice, and tempt, and undermine,In which you all his arts out-do,And prove yourselves his betters too.Hence 'tis possessions do less evilThan mere temptations of the Devil,Which, all the horrid'st actions done,Are charg'd in courts of law upon;Because unless they help the elf,He can do little of himself;And therefore where he's best possess'dActs most against his interest;Surprizes none, but those wh' have priestsTo turn him out, and exorcists,Supply'd with spiritual provision,And magazines of ammunitionWith crosses, relicks, crucifixes,Beads, pictures, rosaries, and pixes;The tools of working our salvationBy mere mechanick operation;With holy water, like a sluice,To overflow all avenues.But those wh' are utterly unarm'dT' oppose his entrance, if he storm'd,He never offers to surprize,Although his falsest enemies;But is content to be their drudge,And on their errands glad to trudgeFor where are all your forfeituresEntrusted in safe hands but ours?Who are but jailors of the holes,And dungeons where you clap up souls;Like under-keepers, turn the keys,T' your mittimus anathemas;And never boggle to restoreThe members you deliver o'reUpon demand, with fairer justiceThan all your covenanting Trustees;Unless to punish them the worse,You put them in the secular pow'rs,And pass their souls, as some demiseThe same estate in mortgage twice;When to a legal UtlegationYou turn your excommunication,And for a groat unpaid, that's due,Distrain on soul and body too.

Thought he, 'tis no mean part of civilState prudence to cajole the DevilAnd not to handle him too rough,When h' has us in his cloven hoof.

T' is true, quoth he, that intercourseHas pass'd between your friends and ours;That as you trust us, in our way,To raise your members, and to lay,We send you others of our own,Denounc'd to hang themselves or drown;Or, frighted with our oratory,To leap down headlong many a storyHave us'd all means to propagateYour mighty interests of state;Laid out our spiritual gifts to furtherYour great designs of rage and murther.For if the Saints are nam'd from blood,We only have made that title good;And if it were but in our power,We should not scruple to do more,And not be half a soul behindOf all dissenters of mankind.

Right, quoth the voice, and as I scornTo be ungrateful, in returnOf all those kind good offices,I'll free you out of this distress,And set you down in safety, whereIt is no time to tell you here.The cock crows, and the morn grows on,When 'tis decreed I must be gone;And if I leave you here till day,You'll find it hard to get away.

With that the Spirit grop'd about,To find th' inchanted hero out,And try'd with haste to lift him up;But found his forlorn hope, his crup,Unserviceable with kicks and blows,Receiv'd from harden'd-hearted foes.He thought to drag him by the heels,Like Gresham carts, with legs for wheels;But fear, that soonest cures those soresIn danger of relapse to worse,Came in t' assist him with it's aidAnd up his sinking vessel weigh'd.No sooner was he fit to trudge,But both made ready to dislodge.The Spirit hors'd him like a sackUpon the vehicle his back;And bore him headlong into th' hall,With some few rubs against the wallWhere finding out the postern lock'd,And th' avenues as strongly block'd,H' attack'd the window, storm'd the glass,And in a moment gain'd the pass;Thro' which he dragg'd the worsted souldier'sFore-quarters out by the head and shoulders;And cautiously began to scout,To find their fellow-cattle out.Nor was it half a minute's quest,E're he retriev'd the champion's beast,Ty'd to a pale, instead of rack;But ne'er a saddle on his back,Nor pistols at the saddle-bow,Convey'd away the Lord knows how,He thought it was no time to stay,And let the night too steal away;But in a trice advanc'd the KnightUpon the bare ridge, bolt upright:And groping out for RALPHO's jade,He found the saddle too was stray'd,And in the place a lump of soap,On which he speedily leap'd up;And turning to the gate the rein,He kick'd and cudgell'd on amain.While HUDIBRAS, with equal haste,On both sides laid about as fast,And spurr'd as jockies use to break,Or padders to secure, a neckWhere let us leave 'em for a time,And to their Churches turn our rhyme;To hold forth their declining state,Which now come near an even rate.