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That he resolv’d, rather than yield,

Quarter he scorns, he is so stout, To die with honour in the field,

And therefore cannot long hold out. And sell his hide and carcass at

This said, they wav'd their weapons round A price as high and desperate

About their heads to clear the ground, As e'er he could. This resolution

And joining forces, laid about He forth with put in execution,

So fiercely, that the amazed rout And bravely threw himself among

Turn'd tail again, and straight begun, The enemy, i'th' greatest throng ;

As if the devil drove, to run. But what cou'd single valour do

Meanwhile they approach'd the place where Bruin Against so numerous a foe?

Was now engag’d to mortal ruin. Yet much he did, indeed too much

The conqu’ring foe they soon assail'd, To be believ'd where th' odds were such ;

First Trulla stay'd and Cerdon tail'd, But one against a multitude,

Until their Mastiffs loos’d their hold: Is more than mortal can make good:

And yet, alas ! do what they could, For while one party he oppos’d,

The worsted Bear came off with store His rear was suddenly enclos'd,

Of bloody wounds, but all before: And no room left him for retreat,

For as Achilles, dipt in pond, Or fight against a foe so great.

Was anabaptiz'd free from wound, For now the mastiffs charging home,

Made proof against dead-doing steel To blows and handy-gripes were come ;

All over, but the Pagan heel; While manfully himself he bore,

So did our champion's arms defend And setting his right foot before,

All of him but the other end, He rais'd himself to shew how tall

His head and ears, which in the martial His person was above them all.

Encounter lost a leathern parcel ; This equal shame and envy stirr'd

For as an Austrian archduke once In th' enemy, that one should beard

Had one ear (which in ducatoons So many warriors, and so stout,

Is half the coin) in battle par'd As he had done, and stay'd it out,

Close to his head, so Bruin far'd; Disdaining to lay down his arms,

But tugg'd and pulld on th' other side, And yield on honourable terms.

Like scriv'ner newly crucify'd : Enraged thus, some in the rear

Or like the late corrected leathern Attack'd him, and some ev'ry where,

Ears of the circumcised brethren. Till down he fell ; yet falling fought,

But gentle Trulla into th’ ring And being down, still laid about;

He wore in's nose convey'd a string, As Widdrington in doleful dumps

With which she march'd before, and led Is said to fight upon his stumps.

The warrior to a grassy bed, But all, alas ! had been in vain,

As authors write in a cool shade, And he inevitably slain,

Which eglantine and roses made ; If Trulla and Cerdon in the nick

Close by a softly murm’ring stream, To rescue him had not been quick:

Where lovers us'd to loll and dream; For Trulla, who was light of foot,

There leaving him to his repose, As shafts which long field Parthians shoot,

Secured from pursuit of foes, (But not so light as to be borne

And wanting nothing but a song, Upon the ears of standing corn,

And a well-tun'd theorbo hung
Or trip it o'er the water quicker

Upon a bough, to ease his pain
Than witches, when their staves they liquor, His tugg'd ears suffer'd with a strain,
As some report) was got among

They both drew up, to march in quest
The foremost of the martial throng ;

Of his great leader and the rest. There pitying the vanquish'd Bear,

For Orsin (who was more renown'd She call'd to Cerdon, who stood near,

For stout maintaining of his ground, Viewing the bloody fight; to whom,

In standing fight, than for pursuit, Shall we (quoth she) stand still hum drum,

As being not so quick of foot) And see stout Bruin, all alone,

Was not long able to keep pace By numbers basely overthrown?

With others that pursu'd the chace, Such feats already he 'as achiev'd,

But found himself left far behind, In story not to be believ'd,

Both out of heart and out of wind; And 'I would to us be shame enough

Griev'd to behold his Bear pursu'd Not to atiempt to fetch him off.

So basely by a multitude, I wonld (quoth he) venture a limb

And like to fall, not by the prowess, To second thee, and rescue him ;

But numbers, of his coward foes. But then we must about it straight,

He rag'd, and kept as heavy a coil as Or else our aid will come too late ;

Stout Hercules for loss of Hylas;



Forcing the vallies to repeat

Whom furious Orsin thus bespoke : The accents of his sad regret;

Shall we (quoth he) thus basely brook He beat his breast, and tore his hair,

The vile affront that paltry ass, For loss of his dear crony Bear,

And feeble scoundrel, Hudibras, That Echo, from the hollow ground,

With that more paltry ragamuffin, His doleful wailings did resound,

Ralpho, with vapouring and huffing, More wistfully, by many times,

Have put upon us, like tame cattle, Than in small poets splayfoot rhymes,

As if th' had routed us in battle ? That make her, in their ruthful stories,

For my part, it shall ne'er be said To answer to int’rrogatories,

I for the washing gave my head: And most unconscionably depose

Nor did I turn my back for fear To things of which she nothing knows;

O'th' rascals, but loss of my Bear, And when she has said all she can say,

Which now I'm like to undergo; 'Tis wrested to the lover's fancy,

For whether these fell wounds, or no, Quoth he, O whither, wicked Bruin,

He has receiv'd in fight, are mortal, Art thou fled ? to my-Echo, Ruin.

Is more than all my skill can foretel ; I thought th' hadst scorned to budge a step

Nor do I know what is become For fear. Quoth Echo, Marry guep.

Of him, more than the Pope of Rome. Am not I here to take thy part?

But if I can but find them out Then what has quail'd thy stubborn heart?

That caus'd it (as I shall no doubt, Have these bones rattled and this head

Where'er they in hugger-mugger lurk) So often in thy quarrel bled ?

I'll make them rue their handywork, Nor did I ever winch or grudge it

And wish that they had rather dar'd For thy dear sake. Quoth she, Mum, budget.

To pull the devil by the beard. Think'st thou t'will not be laid i' th' dish

Quoth Cerdon, Noble Orsin, th' hast Thou turn’d'st thy back ? Quoth Echo, Pish.

Great reason to do as thou say'st, To run from those th' hadst overcome

And so has ev'ry body here, Thus cowardly? Quoth Echo, Mum.

As well as thou hast, or thy Bear: But what a vengeance makes thee fly

Others may do as they see good; From me too, as thine enemy?

But if this twig be made of wood Or, if thou hast no thought of me,

That will hold tack, I'll make the fur Nor what I have endur'd for thee,

Fly 'bout the ears of that old cur, Yet shame and honour might prevail

And the other mongrel vermin, Ralph,

That brav'd us all in his behalf.
To keep thee thus from turning tail:
For who would grutch to spend his blood in

Thy Bear is safe, and out of peril,
His honour's cause ? Quoth she, a Puddin.

Though lugg'd indeed, and wounded very ill; This said, his grief to anger turn'd,

Myself and Trulla made a shift Which in his manly stomach burn'd;

To help him out at a dead lift; Thirst of revenge, and wrath, in place

And having brought him bravely off, Of sorrow now began to blaze.

Have left him where he's safe enough: He vow'd the authors of his wo

There let him rest; for if we stay, Should equal vengeance undergo,

The slaves may hap to get away.
And with their bones and flesh


This said, they all engag'd to join
For what he suffer'd, and his Bear.

Their forces in the same design, This being resolv'd, with equal speed

And forthwith put themselves in search And rage he hasted to proceed

Of Hudibras upon their march: To action straight, and giving o'er

Where leave we them awhile, to tell To search for Bruin any more,

What the victorious Knight befel ; He went in quest of Hudibras,

For such, Crowdero being fast To find him out where'er he was ;

In dungeon shut, we left him last.' And, if he were above ground, vow'd,

Triumphant laurels seem'd to grow He'd ferret him, lurk where he wou'd.

No where so green as on his brow. But scarce had he a furlong on

Laden with which, as well as tir'd This resolute adventure gone,

With conqu’ring toil, he now retir'd When he encounter'd with that crew

Unto a neighb'ring castle by, Whom Hudibras did late subdue.

To rest his body, and apply Honour, revenge, contempt, and shame,

Fit med'cines to each glorious bruise Did equally their breasts inflame.

He got in fight, reds, blacks, and blues; 'Mong these the fierce Magnano was

To mollify th’ uneasy pang And Talgol, foe to Hudibras ;

Of ev'ry honourable bang, Cerdon and Colon, warriors stout,

Which being by skilful midwife drest, And resolute, as ever fought;

He laid him down to take his rest.

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So let them be, as I was saying, There was an ancient sage philosopher

They their live engines ply'd, not staying That had read Alexander Ross over,

Until they reach'd the fatal champain And swore the world, as he could prove,

Which th' enemy did then encamp on; Was made of fighting and of love.

The dire Pharsalian plain, where battle Just so romances are, for what else

Was to be wag'd 'twixt puissant cattle, Is in them all but love and battles ?

And fierce auxiliary men, O'th' first of these w' have no great matter

That came to aid their bretheren; To treat of, but a world o' th' latter,

Who now began to take the field, In which to do the injur'd right,

As knight from ridge of steed beheld. We mean in what concerns just fight:

For as our modern wits behold, Certes, our authors are to blame,

Mounted a pick-back on the old, For to make some well-sounding name

Much farther off, much farther he, A pattern fit for modern knights

Rais'd on his aged beast, could see; To copy out in frays and fights,

Yet not sufficient to descry (Like those that a whole street do raze

All postures of the enemy: To build a palace in the place)

Wherefore he bids the squire ride further, They never care how many others

T observe their numbers and their order, They kill, without regard of mothers,

That when their motions he had known, Or wives, or children, so they can

He might know how to fit his own. Make up some fierce dead-doing man,

Meanwhile he stopp'd his willing steed, Compos'd of many ingredient valours,

To fit himself for martial deed : Just like the manhood of nine tailors :

Both kinds of metal ke prepar'd, So a wild Tartar, when he spies

Either to give blows or to ward; A man that's handsome, valiant, wise,

Courage and steel, both of great force, If he can kill him, thinks t' inherit

Prepar'd for better or for worse. His wit, his beauty, and his spirit;

His death-charg'd pistols he did fit well, As if just so much he enjoy'd,

Drawn out from life-preserving vittle. As in another is destroyed.

These being prim’d, with force he labour'd For when a giant's slain in fight,

To free's sword from retentive scabbard; And mow'd o'erthwart, or cleft downright;

And, after many a painful pluck, It is a heavy case, no doubt,

From rusty durance he bail'd tuck : A man should have his brains beat out,

Then shook himself, to see that prowess Because he's tall, and has large bones,

In scabbard of his arms sat loose ; As men kill beavers for their stones.

And, rais'd upon his desp'rate foot, But as for our part, we shall tell

On stirrup-side he gaz'd about, The naked truth of what befel,

Portending blood, like blazing star, And as an equal friend to both

The beacon of approaching war. The Knight and Bear, but more to Troth,

Ralpho rode on with no less speed With neither faction shall take part,

Than Hugo in the forest did, But give to each his due desert,

But far more in returning made; And never coin a formal lie on't,

For now the foe he had survey'd, To make the knight o'ercome the giant.

Rang'd, as to him they did appear, This being profest, we've hopes enough,

With van, main-battle, wings and rear. And now go on where we left off.

l'th' head of all this warlike rabble, They rode, but authors having not

Crowdero march'd, expert and able. Determin’d whether pace or trot,

Instead of trumpet and of drum, (That is to say, whether tollutation,

That makes the warrior's stomach come, As they do term 't, or succussation)

Whose noise whets valour sharp, like beer We leave it, and go on, as now

By thunder turn'd to vinegar, Suppose they did, no matter how;

(For if a trumpet sound, or drum beat, Yet some, from subtle hints, have got

Who has not a month's mind to combat?) Mysterious light it was a trot:

A squeaking engine he apply'd But let that pass; they now begun

Unto his neck, on north-east side, To spur their living engines on,

Just where the hangman does dispose, For as whipp'd tops and bandy'd balls,

To special friends, the knot of noose : The learned hold, are animals;

For 'tis great grace, when statesmen straight So horses they affirm to be

Dispatch a friend, let others wait. Mere engines made by geometry,

His warped ear hung o'er the strings, And were invented first from engines,

Which was but souse to chitterlings: As Indian Britons were from Penguins.

For guts, some write, ere they are soddan,

Are fit for music or for pudden;

A skilful leech is better far From whence men borrow ev'ry kind

Than half a hundred men of war; Of minstrelsy by string or wind.

So he appear'd, and by his skill, His grisly beard was long and thick,

No less than dint of sword, cou'd kill. With which he strung his fiddlestick;

The gallant Bruin march'd next him, For he to horse-tail scorn'd to owe

With visage formidably grim, For what on his own chin did grow.

And rugged as a Saracen, Chiron, the four-legg'd bard, had both

Or Turk of Mahomet's own kin, A beard and tail of his own growth;

Clad in a mantle della guerre And yet by authors ’tis averr’d,

Of rough impenetrable fur; He made use only of his beard.

And in his nose, like Indian king, In Staffordshire, where virtuous worth

He wore, for ornament, a ring; Does raise the minstrelsy, not birth,

About his neck a threefold gorget, Where bulls do choose the boldest king

As rough as trebled leathern target ; And ruler o'er the men of string,

Armed, as heralds, cant and langued, (As once in Persia, 'tis said,

Or, as the vulgar say, sharp-fanged:
Kings were proclaim'd by a horse that neigh’d) For as the teeth in beasts of prey
He, bravely vent'ring at a crown,

Are swords with which they fight in fray, By chance of war was beaten down,

So swords, in men of war, are teeth And wounded sore: his leg, then broke,

Which they do eat their victual with. Had got a deputy of oak;

He was by birth, some authors write, For when a shin in fight is cropt,

A Russian, some a Muscovite, The knee with one of timber's propt,

And ’mong the Cossacs had been bred, Esteein'd more honourable than the other,

Of whom we in diurnals read, And takes place, though the younger brother. That serve to fill up pages here, Next march'd brave Orsin, famous for

As with their bodies ditches there. Wise conduct, and success in war;

Scrimansky was his cousin-german, A skilful leader, stout, severe,

With whom he serv'd, and fed on vermin; Now Marshal to the champion Bear.

And when these fail'd, he'd suck his claws, With truncheon tipp'd with iron head,

And quarter himself upon his paws; The warrior to the lists he led,

And though his countrymen, the Huns, With solemn march, and stately pace,

Did stew their meat between their bums But far more grave and solemn face;

And th' horses' backs o'er which they straddle, Grave as the emperor of Pegu,

And ev'ry man ate up his saddle; Or Spanish potentate, Don Diego.

He was not half so nice as they, This leader was of knowledge great,

But ate it raw when 't came in 's way. Either for charge or for retreat:

He'd trac'd the countries far and near, He knew when to fall on pellmell,

More than Le Blanc the traveller, To fall back and retreat as well.

Who writes, he spous'd in India, Learn'd he was in med'cinal lore,

Of noble house, a lady gay, For by his side a pouch he wore,

And got on her a race of worthies Replete with strange hermetic powder,

As stout as any upon earth is. That wounds nine miles point-blank wou'd solder; Full many a fight for him between By skilful chemist, with great cost,

Talgol and Orsin oft had been, Extracted from a rotten post;

Each striving to deserve the crown But of a heav'nlier influence

Of a sav'd citizen ; the one Than that which mountebanks dispense;

To guard his Bear, the other fought Though by Promethean fire made,

To aid his Dog; both made more stout As they do quack that drive that trade.

By sev'ral spurs of neighbourhood, For as when slovens do amiss

Church-fellow-membership, and blood ; At other doors, by stool or piss,

But Talgol, mortal foe to cows, The learned write, a redhot spit

Never got aught of him but blows; B’ing prudently apply'd to it,

Blows hard and heavy, such as he Will convey mischief from the dung

Had lent, repaid with usury. Unto the part that did the wrong;

Yet Talgol was of courage stout, So this did healing, and as sure

And vanquish'd oft'ner than he fought; As that did mischief, this would cure.

Inur'd to labour, sweat, and toil, Thus virtuous Orsin was endu'd

And, like a champion, shone with oil: With learning, conduct, fortitude,

Right many a widow his keen blade, Incomparable; and as the prince

And many fatherless, had made; Of poets, Homer, sung long since,

He many a boar and huge dun cow

Did, like another Guy, o'erthrow;

As Joan of France, or English Mall: But Guy with him in fight compar’d,

Through perils both of wind and limb, Had like the boar or dun cow far'd:

Through thick and thin she followed him With greater troops of sheep h' had fought

In ev'ry adventure h’undertook, Than Ajax, or bold Don Quixote;

And never him or it forsook: And many a serpent of fell kind,

At breach of wall, or hedge surprise, With wings before and stings behind,

She shar'd i'th' hazard and the prize; Subdu'd, as poets say, long agone

At beating quarters up, or forage, Bold Sir George, Saint George, did the Dragon.

Behav'd herself with matchless courage, Nor engine, nor device polemic,

And laid about in fight more busily Disease, nor doctor epidemic,

Than th' Amazonian dame Penthesile. Though storld with deletery med'cines,

And though some critics here cry shame, (Which whosoever took is dead since)

And say our authors are to blame, E'er sent so vast a colony

That (spight of all philosophers To both the under worlds as he;

Who hold no females stout but bears, For he was of that noble trade

And heretofore did so abhor That demi-gods and heroes made,

That women should pretend to war, Slaughter, and knocking on the head,

They would not suffer the stout'st dame The trade to which they all were bred:

To swear by Hercules's name) And is, like others, glorious when

Make feeble ladies, in their works, 'Tis great and large, but base, if mean:

To fight like termagants and Turks; The former rides in triumph for it,

To lay their native arms aside, The latter in a two-wheel'd chariot,

Their modesty, and ride astride; For daring to profane a thing

To run atilt at men, and wield So sacred with vile bungling.

Their naked tools in open field; Next these the brave Magnano came,

As stout Armida, bold Thalestris, Magnano, great in martial fame;

And she that would have been the mistress Yet when with Orsin he wag'd fight,

Of Gondibert, but he had grace, 'Tis sung he got but little by 't;

And rather took a country lass; Yet he was fierce as forest boar,

They say 'tis false without all sense, Whose spoils upon his back he wore,

But of pernicious consequence As thick as Ajax' sevenfold shield,

To government, which they suppose Which o'er his brazen arms he held;

Can never be upheld in piree; But brass was feeble to resist

Strip Nature naked to the skin, The fury of his armed fist ;

You'll find about her no such thing.
Nor could the hardest iron hold out

It may be so, yet what we tell
Against his blows, but they would through 't. Of Trulla that's improbable
In magic he was deeply read,

Shall be depos'd by those have seen 't,
As he that made the brazen-head;

Or, what's as good, produc'd in print; Profoundly skill'd in the black art,

And if they will not take our word,
As English Merlin for his heart;

We'll prove it true upon record.
But far more skilful in the spheres,
Than he was at the sieve and shears.
He could transform himself in colour,

THE ADVENTURE OF THE RIDING, As like the Devil is the collier;

At this the Knight grew high in chafe, As like the hypocrites, in shew,

And, staring furiously on Ralph, Are to true saints, or crow to crow.

He trembled, and look'd pale with ire, Of warlike engines he was author,

Like ashes first, then red as fire. Devis’d for quick dispatch of slaughter:

Have I (quoth he) been ta'en in fight, The cannon, blunderbuss, and saker,

And for so many moons lain by 't, He was th' inventor of, and maker:

And when all other means did fail, The trumpet and the kettle-drum

Have been exchang’d for tubs of ale? Did both from his invention come:

Not but they thought me worth a ransom He was the first that e'er did teach

Much more consid'rable and handsome, To make, and how to stop a breach.

But for their own sakes, and for fear A lance he bore with iron pike,

They were not safe when I was there ; Th' one half would thrust, the other strike;

Now to be baffled by a scoundrel, And when their forces he had join'd,

An upstart sect'ry, and a mongrel, He scorn’d to turn his parts behind.

Such as breed out of peccant humours He Trulla lov’d; Trulla, more bright

Of our own church, like wens or tumours, Than burnish'd armour of her knight;

And, like a maggot in a sore, A bold virago, stout and tall,

Wou'd that which gave it life devour ;

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