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For words and promises, that yoke
The conqueror, are quickly broke:

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But to the wicked or the weak,

We must be cautious to declare
Perfection-truths, such as these are.

This said, the high outrageous mettle

Of Knight began to cool and settle.

He lik❜d the Squire's advice, and soon

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Resolv'd to see th' bus'ness done:
And therefore charg'd him first to bind
Crowdero's hands on rump behind,

And to its former place and use

The wooden member to reduce:

But force it take an oath before,

Ne'er to bear arms against him more.

Ralpho dispatch'd with speedy haste, And having ty'd Crowdero fast,

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He

gave Sir Knight the end of cord,

To lead the captive of his sword

In triumph, whilst the steeds he caught,
And them to further service brought.

The Squire in state rode on before,
And on his nut-brown whinyard bore

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The trophy Fiddle and the case,
Leaning on shoulder like a mace.
The Knight himself did after ride,
Leading Crowdero by his side;
And tow'd him, if he lagg'd behind,
Like boat against the tide and wind.

Thus grave and solemn they march'd on,
Until quite through the town th' had gone;
\t further end of which there stands

An ancient castle, that commands

Th' adjacent parts; in all the fabric

You shall not see one stone, nor a brick,
But all of wood, by pow'rful spell

Of magic made impregnable:

There's neither iron bar nor gate,
Portcullis, chain, nor bolt, nor grate;
And yet men durance there abide,
In dungeons scarce three inches wide;

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With roof so low, that under it

They never stand, but lie or sit;

And yet so foul, that whoso is in,
Is to the middle leg in prison;

In circle magical confin'd,

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With walls of subtle air and wind;

Which none are able to break thorough,

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Until they're freed by head of borough.
Thither arriv'd, the advent'rous Knight
And bold Squire from their steeds alight,

At th' outward wall, near which there stands

A bastile, built t' imprison hands;

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By strange inchantment made to fetter

The lesser parts and free the greater;
For tho' the body may creep through,
The hands in grate are fast enow:

And when a circle 'bout the wrist
Is made by beadle exorcist,

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The body feels the spur and switch,

As if 't were ridden post by witch,

At twenty miles an hour pace,

And yet ne'er stirs out of the place.

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On top of this there is a spire,

On which Sir Knight first bids the Squire,

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