But if they dare engage t' a second,
They're stout and gallant fellows reckon'd."
"Th' old Romans freedom did bestow,
Our princes worship, with a blow.
King Pyrrhus cur'd his splenetic
And testy courtiers with a kick.
The Negus, when some mighty lord
Or potentate's to be restor❜d,
And pardon'd for some great offence,
With which he's willing to dispense,
First has him laid upon his belly,
Then beaten back and side a jelly;
That done, he rises, humbly bows,
And gives thanks for the princely blows;
Departs not meanly proud, and boasting
Of his magnificent rib-roasting.
The beaten soldier proves most manful,
That, like his sword, endures the anvil,
And justly's held more formidable,
The more his valour's malleable:
But he that fears a bastinado,
Will run away from his own shadow:
And though I'm now in durance fast,
By our own party basely cast,
Ransom, exchange, parole, refus'd,
And worse than by th' enemy us'd;
In close catasta shut, past hope
Of wit or valour to elope;

As beards, the nearer that they tend
To th' earth, still grow more reverend ;
And cannons shoot the higher pitches,
The lower we let down their breeches;
I'll make this low dejected fate
Advance me to a greater height."

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

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

When Hudibras this language heard,
He prick'd up 's ears, and strok'd his beard.
Thought he, this is the lucky hour,
Wines work when vines are in the flower:
This crisis then I'll set my rest on,
And put her boldly to the quest'on.
"Madam, what you would seem to doubt,
Shall be to all the world made out;
How I've been drubb'd, and with what spirit
And magnanimity I bear it;
And if you doubt it to be true,
I'll stake myself down against you;

And if I fail in love or troth,

Be you the winner, and take both."

Quoth she, "I've heard old cunning stagers Say, fools for arguments use wagers; And though I prais'd your valour, yet I did not mean to baulk your wit; Which if you have, you must needs know What I have told you before now,

To practise what you call a fault."
Quoth she," If what you say is true,
You must fly me as I do you;
But 'tis not what we do, but say,

In love and preaching, that must sway."
Quoth he, "To bid me not to love,

Is to forbid my pulse to move,
My beard to grow, my ears to prick up,
Or (when I'm in a fit) to hiccup.
Command me to piss out the Moon,
And 'twill as easily be done.

Love's power's too great to be withstood
By feeble human flesh and blood.
'Twas he that brought upon his knees
The hectoring kill-cow Hercules;
Transform'd his leager-lion's skin
T'a petticoat, and made him spin;
Seiz'd on his club, and made it dwindle
T'a feeble distaff and a spindle.
'Twas he that made emp'rors gallants
To their own sisters and their aunts;
Set popes and cardinals agog,
To play with pages at leap-frog:
'Twas he that gave our senate purges,
And fluxt the house of many a burgess;
Made those that represent the nation
Submit, and suffer amputation;
And all the grandees o' th' cabal
Adjourn to tubs at spring and fall.
He mounted synod-men, and rode them
To Dirty Lane and Little Sodom;
Made them curvet like Spanish Jenets,
And take the ring at madame

Stennet, a bawd.

Twas he that made Saint Francis do
More than the Devil could tempt him to,
In cold and frosty weather grow
Enamour'd of a wife of snow;

And, though she were of rigid temper,
With melting flames accost and tempt her,
Which after in enjoyment quenching,
He hung a garland on his engine."

Quoth she," If love have these effects, Why is it not forbid our sex?

Why is 't not damn'd and interdicted,

For diabolical and wicked?

And sung, as out of tune, against,
As Turk and pope are by the saints?
I find I've greater reason for it,
Than I believ'd before, t' abhor it."

Quoth Hudibras, "These sad effects
Spring from your heathenish neglects
Of Love's great power, which he returns
[pon yourselves with equal scorns,
And those, who worthy lovers slight,
Plagues with preposterous appetite:
Tas made the beauteous queen of Crete
To take a town-bull for her sweet;
And from her greatness stoop so low,
To be the rival of a cow:

Others to prostitute their great hearts,
Tabe baboons' and monkeys' sweethearts:
Some with the Devil himself in league grow,
By's representative a Negro.

Tras this made vestal maid love-sick,
And venture to be buried quick:

Some by their fathers and their brothers
To be made mistresses and mothers.
Tis this that proudest dames enamours
On lacquies and valets de chambres;
Their haughty stomachs overcomes,
And makes them stoop to dirty grooms;
To slight the world, and to disparage
Claps, issue, infamy, and marriage."

Quoth she, "These judgments are severe,
Yet such as I should rather bear
Than trust men with their oaths, or prove
Their faith and secresy in love."

Says he, "There is as weighty reason
For secresy in love, as treason.
Love is a burglarer, a felon,

That at the windore eye does steal in,
To rob the heart; and with his prey
Steals out again a closer way;
Which whosoever can discover,
He's sure (as he deserves) to suffer.
Love is a fire, that burns and sparkles
In men, as nat'rally as in charcoals,
Which sooty chymists stop in holes,
When out of wood they extract coals;
So lovers should their passions choke,
That though they burn they may not smoke.
Ts like that sturdy thief that stole
And dragg'd beasts backwards into 's hole;
So Love does lovers, and us men
Draws by the tails into his den,
That no impression may discover,
And trace t' his cave the wary lover.
Ezt if you doubt I should reveal
What you intrust me under seal,
i prove myself as close and virtuous
As your own secretary Albertus."

Quoth she, "I grant you may be close In hiding what your aims propose:.

Love-passions are like parables,

By which men still mean something else:
Though love be all the world's pretence,
Money's the mythologic sense,
The real substance of the shadow,
Which all address and courtship's made to."
Thought he, I understand your play,
And how to quit you your own way;
He that will win his dame, must do
As Love does, when he bends his bow;
With one hand thrust the lady from,
And with the other pull her home.
"I grant," quoth he, "wealth is a great
Provocative to amorous heat:

It is all philtres and high diet,
That makes love rampart and to fly out:
'Tis beauty always in the flower,
That buds and blossoms at fourscore:
'Tis that by which the Sun and Moon,
At their own weapons, are outdone:
That makes knights-errant fall in trances,
And lay about them in romances:
'Tis virtue, wit, and worth, and all
That men divine and sacred call:
For what is worth in any thing,
But so much money as 'twill bring?
Or what but riches is there known,
Which man can solely call his own,
In which no creature goes his half,
Unless it be to squint and laugh?
I do confess, with goods and land,
I'd have a wife at second hand;

And such you are: nor is 't your person
My stomach's set so sharp and fierce on;
But 'tis (your better part) your riches,
That my enamour'd heart bewitches :
Let me your fortune but possess,
And settle your person how you please,
Or make it o'er in trust to the Devil,
You'll find me reasonable and civil."

Quoth she, "I like this plainness better
Than false mock passion, speech, or letter,
Or any feat of qualm or sowning,
But hanging of yourself or drowning;
Your only way with me to break
Your mind, is breaking of your neck:
For as, when merchants break, o'erthrown
Like nine-pins, they strike others down;
So that would break my heart; which done,
My tempting fortune is your own.
These are but trifles; every lover
Will damn himself over and over,
And greater matters undertake
For a less worthy mistress' sake:
Yet they 're the only ways to prove
Th' unfeign'd realities of love;
For he that hangs or beats out 's brains,
The Devil's in him if he feigns."

Quoth Hudibras, "This way's too rough
For mere experiment and proof;
It is no jesting, trivial matter,

To swing i' th' air, or douce in water,
And like a water-witch try love;
That's to destroy, and not to prove:
As if a man should be dissected,
To find what part is disaffected;
Your better way is to make over,
In trust, your fortune to your lover:
Trust is a trial; if it break,
'Tis not so desperate as a neck:

Beside, th' experiment's more certain:
Men venture necks to gain a fortune:
The soldier does it every day
(Eight to the week) for sixpence pay;
Your pettifoggers damn their souls,

To share with knaves, in cheating fools;
And merchants, vent'ring through the main,
Slight pirates, rocks, and horns, for gain:
This is the way I advise you to;
Trust me, and see what I will do."

Quoth she, "I should be loth to run
Myself all th' hazard, and you none;
Which must be done, unless some deed
Of your's aforesaid do precede:
Give but yourself one gentle swing,
For trial, and I'll cut the string;
Or give that reverend head a maul,
Or two, or three, against a wall,
To show you are a man of me1tle,
And I'll engage myself to settle."

Quoth he, "My head's not made of brass, As Friar Bacon's noddle was,

Nor (like the Indian's scull) so tough,
That, authors say, 'twas musket-proof:
As it had need to be, to enter,

As yet, on any new adventure:
You see what bangs it has endur'd,
That would, before new feats, be cur'd:
But if that's all you stand upon,
Here strike me, Luck, it shall be done."

Quoth she, "The matter's not so far gone
As you suppose; two words t' a bargain:
That may be done, and time enough,
When you have given downright proof;
And yet 'tis no fantastic pique
I have to love, nor coy dislike;
'Tis no implicit, nice aversion

T" your conversation, mien, or person;
But a just fear, lest you should prove
False and perfidious in love:

For, if I thought you could be true,
I could love twice as much as you."
Quoth he, " My faith, as adamantin
As chains of Destiny, I'll maintain:
True as Apollo ever spoke,
Or oracle from heart of oak;
And if you'll give my flame but vent,
Now in close hugger-mugger pent,
And shine upon me but benignly,
With that one and that other pigsney,
The Sun and day shall sooner part,
Than love or you shake off my heart;
The Sun, that shall no more dispense
His own, but your bright influence.
I'll carve your name on barks of trees,
With true-loves-knots and flourishes,
That shall infuse eternal spring,
And everlasting flourishing;
Drink every letter on 't in stum,
And make it brisk champaign become.
Where'er you tread, your foot shall set
The primrose and the violet;

All spices, perfumes, and sweet powders,
Shall borrow from your breath their odours;
Nature her charter shall renew,

And take all lives of things from you;
The world depend upon your eye,
And when you frown upon it, die:
Only our loves shall still survive,
New worlds and natures to outlive,

And, like to heralds' moons, remain

All crescents, without change or wane."
"Hold, hold," quoth she, "no more of this,
Sir Knight, you take your aim amiss;
For you will find it a hard chapter,
To catch me with poetic rapture,

In which your mastery of art
Doth show itself, and not your heart:
Nor will you raise in mine combustion,
By dint of high heroic fustian.
She that with poetry is won,

Is but a desk to write upon;

And what men say of her, they mean
No more than on the thing they lean.
Some with Arabian spices strive
T embalm her cruelly alive:

Or season her, as French cooks use
Their haut-gousts, boullies, or ragousts:
Use her so barbarously ill,

To grind her lips upon a mill,
Until the facet doublet doth

Fit their rhymes rather than her mouth:
Her mouth, compar'd t' an oyster's, with
A row of pearl in 't, 'stead of teeth.
Others make posies of her cheeks,
Where red and whitest colours mix;
In which the lily and the rose,
For Indian lake and ceruse goes.
The Sun and Moon, by her bright eyes,
Eclips'd, and darken'd in the skies,
Are but black patches, that she wears,
Cut into suns, and moons, and stars;
By which astrologers, as well

As those in Heaven above, can tell
What strange events they do foreshow
Unto her under-world below.
Her voice, the music of the spheres,
So loud, it deafens mortals' ears,
As wise philosophers have thought,
And that's the cause we hear it not.
This has been done by some, who those
Th' ador'd in rhyme would kick in prose;
And in those ribbons would have hung,
Of which melodiously they sung,
That have the hard fate to write best
Of those still that deserve it least ;
It matters not how false or forc'd,
So the best things be said o' th' worst;
It goes for nothing when 'tis said,
Only the arrow's drawn to th' head,
Whether it be a swan or goose
They level at: so shepherds use
To set the same mark on the hip
Both of their sound and rotten sheep:
For wits that carry low or wide
Must be aim'd higher, or beside

The mark, which else they ne'er come nigh,

But when they take their aim awry.

But I do wonder you should choose

This way t' attack me, with your Muse,

As one cut out to pass your tricks on,
With Fulhams of poetic fiction:

I rather hop'd I should no more
Hear from you o' th' gallanting score;
For hard dry-bastings us'd to prove
The readiest remedies of love,
Next a dry-diet; but if those fail,
Yet this uneasy loop-hol'd gaol,

2 A cant word for false dice.

In which ye 're hamper'd by the fetlock,
Cannot but put y' in mind of wedlock;
Wedlock, that's worse than any hole here,
If that may serve you for a cooler
Tallay your mettle, all agog
Upon a wife, the heavier clog:
Nor rather thank your gentler Fate,
That for a bruis'd or broken pate

Has freed you from those knobs that grow
Much harder on the marry'd brow:
But if no dread can cool your courage,
From venturing on that dragon, marriage,
Yet give me quarter, and advance
To nobler aims your puissance;
Level at Beauty and at Wit;
The fairest mark is easiest hit."

Quoth Hudibras, "I am beforehand
In that already, with your command;
For where does Beauty and high Wit,
But in your constellation, meet?"

Quoth she, "What does a match imply, But likeness and equality?

I know you cannot think me fit
To be th' yoke-fellow of your wit;
For take one of so mean deserts,
To be the partner of your parts;
A grace which, if I could believe,
I've not the conscience to receive."
"That conscience," quoth Hudibras,
* Is misinform'd; I'll state the case.
A man may be a legal donor
Of any thing whereof he's owner,
And may confer it where he lists,
I th' judgment of all casuists:

Then wit, and parts, and valour, may
Be ali'nated, and made away,
By those that are proprietors,
As I may give or sell my horse."

Quoth she, " I grant the case is true,
And proper 'twixt your horse and you;
But whether I may take, as well
As you may give away or sell?
Buyers, you know, are bid beware;
And worse than thieves receivers are.

How shall I answer Hue and Cry,
For a roan-gelding, twelve hands high,

All spurr'd and switch'd, a lock on 's hoof,

A sorrel mane? Can I bring proof

Look on this beard, and tell me whether
Eunuchs wear such, or geldings either?
Next it appears I am no horse,
That I can argue and discourse,
Have but two legs, and ne'er a tail."

Quoth she, "That nothing will avail;
For some philosophers of late here,
Write men have four legs by Nature,
And that 'tis custom makes them go
Erroneously upon but two;

As 'twas in Germany made good,
B' a boy that lost himself in a wood,
And growing down t' a man, was wont
With wolves upon all four to hunt.
As for your reasons drawn from tails,
We cannot say they 're true or false,
Till you explain yourself, and show
B' experiment 'tis so or no."

Quoth he, "If you'll join issue on 't,
I'll give you satisfactory account;

So you will promise, if you lose,
To settle all, and be my spouse."

"That never shall be done," quoth she,
To one that wants a tail, by me;
For tails by Nature sure were meant,
As well as beards, for ornament;

And though the vulgar count them homely,
In men or beast they are so comely,
So gentee, alamode, and handsome,
I'll never marry man that wants one:
And till you can demonstrate plain,
You have one equal to your mane,
I'll be torn piecemeal by a horse,
Ere I'll take you for better or worse.
The prince of Cambay's daily food
Is asp, and basilisk, and toad,
Which makes him have so strong a breath,
Each night he stinks a queen to death;
Yet I shall rather lie in 's arms
Than your's on any other terms.”

Quoth he, "What Nature can afford
I shall produce, upon my word;
And if she ever gave that boon
To man, I'll prove that I have one;
I mean by postulate illation,
When you shall offer just occasion;
But since ye 'ave yet deny'd to give
My heart, your prisoner, a reprieve,

And in the open market toll'd for?
Or, should I take you for a stray,

You must be kept a year and day,
(Ere I can own you) here i' th' pound,
Where, if ye 're sought, you may be found;
And in the mean time I must pay
For all your provender and hay."

Quoth he, "It stands me much upon

T enervate this objection,

And prove myself, by topic clear,
No gelding, as you would infer.

Loss of virility's averr'd

To be the cause of loss of beard,

That does (like embryo in the womb)
Abortive on the chin become:

This first a woman did invent,
in envy of man's ornament,

Semiramis of Babylon,

Who first of all cut men o' th' stone,

To mar their beards, and laid foundation
Of sow-geldering operation:

Let that at least your pity feel;
And for the sufferings of your martyr,
Give its poor entertainer quarter;
And by discharge, or mainprize, grant
Delivery from this base restraint."

Quoth she, I grieve to see your leg
Stuck in a hole here like a peg,
And if I knew which way to do 't,
(Your honour safe) I'd let you out.
That dames by gaol-delivery
Of errant knights have been set free,
When by enchantment they have been,
And sometimes for it, too, laid in,

Is that which knights are bound to do

By order, oath, and honour too;

For what are they renown'd and famous else,

But aiding of distressed damosels?

But for a lady, no ways errant,

To free a knight, we have no warrant

In any authentical romance,

Or classic author yet of France;

And I'd be loth to have you break
An ancient custom for a freak,
Or innovation introduce

In place of things of antique use,
To free your heels by any course

That might be unwholesome to your spurs :
Which, if I should consent unto,
It is not in my power to do;
For 'tis a service must be done ye
With solemn previous ceremony;
Which always has been us'd t' untie
The charms of those who here do lie:
For as the ancients heretofore
To Honour's temple had no door
But that which thorough Virtue's lay;
So from this dungeon there 's no way
To honour'd Freedom, but by passing
That other virtuous school of Lashing,
Where knights are kept in narrow lists,
With wooden lockets 'bout their wrists;
In which they for a while are tenants,
And for their ladies suffer penance :
Whipping, that's Virtue's governess,
Tutress of arts and sciences;

That mends the gross mistakes of Nature,
And puts new life into dull matter;
That lays foundation for renown,
And all the honours of the gown:
This suffer'd, they are set at large,
And freed with honourable discharge;
Then, in their robes, the penitentials
Are straight presented with credentials,
And in their way attended on
By magistrates of every town;
And, all respect and charges paid,
They're to their ancient seats convey'd.
Now if you'll venture, for my sake,
To try the toughness of your back,
And suffer (as the rest have done)
The laying of a whipping-on,
(And may you prosper in your suit
As you with equal vigour do't)
I here engage myself to loose ye,
And free your heels from caperdewsie.
But since our sex's modesty
Will not allow I should be by,
Bring me on oath a fair account,
And honour too, when you have don 't;
And I'll admit you to the place
You claim as due in my good grace.
If matrimony and hanging go
By destiny, why not whipping too?
What med'cine else can cure the fits
Of lovers when they lose their wits ?
Love is a boy, by poets styl'd,
Then spare the rod, and spoil the child.
"A Persian emperor whipp'd his grannam,
The Sea, his mother Venus came on;
And hence some reverend men approve
Of rosemary in making love.

As skilful coopers hoop their tubs
With Lydian and with Phrygian dubs,
Why may not whipping have as good
A grace? perform'd in time and mood,
With comely movement, and by art,
Raise passion in a lady's heart?
It is an easier way to make
Love by, than that which many take.

Who would not rather suffer whippits,
Than swallow toasts of bits of ribbin?
Make wicked verses, treats, and faces,
And spell names over, with beer-glasses?
Be under vows to hang and die
Love's sacrifice, and all a lie?
With China-oranges and tarts,

And whining plays, lay baits for hearts?
Bribe chamber-maids with love and money,
To break no roguish jests upon ye?
For lilies limn'd on cheeks, and roses,
With painted perfumes, hazard noses?
Or, venturing to be brisk and wanton,
Do penance in a paper lantern?
All this you may compound for now,
By suffering what I offer you;
Which is no more than has been done
By knights for ladies long agone.
Did not the great La Mancha do so
For the infanta Del Toboso?
Did not th' illustrious Bassa make
Himself a slave for Misse's sake,
And with bull's pizzle, for her love,
Was taw'd as gentle as a glove?
Was not young Florio sent (to cool
His flame for Biancafiore) to school,
Where pedant made his pathic bum
For her sake suffer martyrdom?
Did not a certain lady whip,
Of late, her husband's own lordship?
And though a grandee of the house,
Claw'd him with fundamental blows;
Ty'd him stark-naked to a bed-post,
And firk'd his hide, as if she 'ad rid post;
And after in the sessions court,
Where whipping's judg'd, had honour for't?
This swear you will perform, and then
I'll set you from th' enchanted den,
And the magician's circle, clear."

Quoth he, "I do profess and swear,
And will perform what you enjoin,
Or may I never see you mine."

"Amen!" quoth she; then turn'd about,
And bid her squire let him out.
But ere an artist could be found
T' undo the charms another bound,
The Sun grew low, and left the skies,
Put down (some write) by ladies' eyes.
The Moon pull'd off her veil of light,
That hides her face by day from sight,
(Mysterious veil, of brightness made,
That's both her lustre and her shade!)
And in the lantern of the night,
With shining horns hung out her light;
For darkness is the proper sphere
Where all false glories use t' appear.
The twinkling stars began to muster,
And glitter with their borrow'd lustre,
While Sleep the weary'd world reliev'd,
By counterfeiting Death reviv'd.
His whipping penance, till the morn,
Our votary thought it best t' adjourn,
And not to carry on a work
Of such importance in the dark,
With erring haste, but rather stay,
And do't in th' open face of day;
And in the mean time go in quest
Of next retreat to take his rest.