Hudibras

of blows;
And, wing’d with speed and fury, flew
To rescue Knight from black and blue;
Which, e’er he could achieve, his sconce
The leg encounter’d twice and once;
And now ’twas rais’d to smite agen,
When Ralpho thrust himself between.
He took the blow upon his arm,
To shield the Knight from further harm;
And, joining wrath with force, bestow’d
On th’ wooden member such a load,
That down it fell, and with it bore
Crowdero, whom it propp’d before.
To him the Squire right nimbly run,
And setting conquering foot upon
His trunk, thus spoke: What desp’rate frenzy
Made thee (thou whelp of sin!) to fancy
Thyself, and all that coward rabble,
T’ encounter us in battle able?
How durst th’, I say, oppose thy curship
’Gainst arms, authority, and worship?
And Hudibras or me provoke,
Though all thy limbs, were heart of oak,
And th’ other half of thee as good
To bear out blows, as that of wood?
Could not the whipping-post prevail,
With all its rhet’ric, nor the jail,
To keep from flaying scourge thy skin,
And ankle free from iron gin?
Which now thou shalt⁠—But first our care
Must see how Hudibras doth fare.
This said, he gently rais’d the Knight,
And set him on his bum upright.
To rouse him from lethargic dump,
He tweak’d his nose; with gentle thump
Knock’d on his breast, as if ’t had been
To raise the spirits lodg’d within.
They, waken’d with the noise, did fly
From inward room to window eye;
And gently op’ning lid, the casement,
Look’d out, but yet with some amazement.
This gladded Ralpho much to see,
Who thus bespoke the Knight: quoth he,
Tweaking his nose, You are, great Sir,
A self-denying conqueror;
As high, victorious, and great,
As e’er fought for the churches yet,
If you will give yourself but leave
To make out what y’ already have;
That’s victory. The foe, for dread
Of your nine-worthiness, is fled;
All, save Crowdero, for whose sake
You did th’ espous’d cause undertake;
And he lies pris’ner at your feet,
To be dispos’d as you think meet;
Either for life, or death, or sale,
The gallows, or perpetual jail;
For one wink of your powerful eye
Must sentence him to live or die.
His fiddle is your proper purchase,
Won in the service of the churches;
And by your doom must be allow’d
To be, or be no more, a crowd.
For though success did not confer
Just title on the conqueror;
Though dispensations were not strong
Conclusions, whether right or wrong;
Although out-goings did confirm,
And owning were but a mere term;
Yet as the wicked have no right
To th’ creature, though usurp’d by might,
The property is in the saint,
From whom th’ injuriously detain ’t;
Of him they hold their luxuries,
Their dogs, their horses, whores, and dice,
Their riots, revels, masks, delights,
Pimps, buffoons, fiddlers, parasites;
All which the saints have title to,
And ought t’ enjoy, if th’ had their due.
What we take from them is no more
Than what was our’s by right before;
For we are their true landlords still,
And they our tenants but at will.
At this the Knight began to rouse,
And by degrees grow valorous,
He star’d about, and seeing none
Of all his foes remain but one,
He snatch’d his weapon, that lay near him,
And from the ground began to rear him;
Vowing to make Crowdero pay
For all the rest that ran away.
But Ralpho now, in colder blood,
His fury mildly thus withstood:
Great Sir, quoth he, your mighty spirit
Is rais’d too high: this slave does merit
To be the hangman’s business, sooner
Than from your hand to have the honour
Of his destruction. I, that am
A nothingness in deed and name
Did scorn to hurt his forfeit carcass,
Or ill intreat his fiddle or case:
Will you, great Sir, that glory blot
In cold blood which you gain’d in hot?
Will you employ your conqu’ring sword
To break a fiddle and your word?
For though I fought, and overcame,
And quarter gave, ’twas in your name,
For great commanders only own
What’s prosperous by the soldier done.
To save, where you have pow’r to kill,
Argues your pow’r above your will;
And that your will and pow’r have less
Than both might have of selfishness.
This pow’r which, now alive, with dread
He trembles at, if he were dead,
Would no more keep the slave in awe,
Than if you were a knight of straw:
For death would then be his conqueror;
Not you, and free him from that terror.
If danger from his life accrue,
Or honour from his death, to you,
’Twere policy, and honour too,
To do as you resolv’d to do;
But, Sir, ’twould wrong your valour much,
To say it needs or fears a crutch.
Great conquerors greater glory gain
By foes in triumph led, than slain:
The laurels that adorn their brows
Are pull’d from living not dead boughs,
And living foes: the greatest fame
Of cripple slain can be but lame.
One half of him’s already slain,
The other is not worth your pain;
Th’ honour can but on one side light,
As worship did, when y’ were dubb’d knight.
Wherefore I think it better far
To keep him prisoner of war,
And let him fast in bonds abide,
At court of justice to be try’d;
Where, if he appear so bold and crafty,
There may be danger in his safety.
If any member there dislike
His face, or to his beard have pique;
Or if his death will save or yield
Revenge or fright, it is reveal’d,
Though he has quarter, ne’er the less
Y’ have power to hang him when you please.
This has been often done by some
Of our great conqu’rors, you know whom;
And has by most of us been held
Wise Justice, and to some reveal’d:
For words and promises, that yoke
The conqueror, are quickly broke;
Like Samson’s cuffs, though by his own
Direction and advice put on.
For if we should fight for the Cause
By rules of military laws,
And only do what they call just,
The Cause would quickly fall to dust.
This we among ourselves may speak;
But to the wicked, or the weak,
We must be cautious to 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
Resolv’d to see the business 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 dispatched with speedy haste,
And having ty’d Crowdero fast,
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