Fight to extend their vast dominion;
And in the cause impatient Grizel
Has drubb’d her husband with bull’s pizzle,
And brought him under covert-baron,
To turn her vassal with a murrain;
When wives their sexes shift, like hares,
And ride their husbands like night-mares,
And they, in mortal battle vanquish’d,
Are of their charter disenfranchis’d,
And by the right of war, like gills,
Condemn’d to distaff, horns, and wheels:
For when men by their wives are cow’d,
Their horns of course are understood.
Quoth Hudibras, Thou still giv’st sentence
Impertinently, and against sense.
’Tis not the least disparagement
To be defeated by th’ event,
Nor to be beaten by main force;
That does not make a man the worse,
Although his shoulders with battoon
Be claw’d and cudgel’d to some tune.
A taylor’s ’prentice has no hard
Measure, that’s bang’d with a true yard:
But to turn tail, or run away,
And without blows give up the day,
Or to surrender ere th’ assault,
That’s no man’s fortune, but his fault,
And renders men of honour less
Than all th’ adversity of success;
And only unto such this show
Of horns and petticoats is due.
There is a lesser profanation,
Like that the Romans call’d ovation:
For as ovation was allow’d
For conquest purchas’d without blood,
So men decree these lesser shows
For victory gotten without blows,
By dint of sharp hard words, which some
Give battle with, and overcome;
These mounted in a chair-curule,
Which moderns call a cucking-stool,
March proudly to the river’s side,
And o’er the waves in triumph ride;
Like dukes of Venice, who are said
The Adriatic Sea to wed;
And have a gentler wife than those
For whom the State decrees those shows.
But both are heathenish, and come
From th’ whores of Babylon and Rome,
And by the Saints should be withstood,
As Antichristian and lewd;
And we as such, should now contribute
Our utmost struggling to prohibit.
This said, they both advanc’d, and rode
A dog-trot through the bawling crowd,
T’ attack the leader, and still prest,
Till they approach’d him breast to breast:
Then Hudibras, with face and hand,
Made signs for silence; which obtain’d,
What means (quoth he) this devil’s procession
With men of orthodox profession?
’Tis ethnic and idolatrous,
From heathenism deriv’d to us.
Does not the Whore of Babylon ride
Upon her horned beast astride
Like this proud dame, who either is
A type of her, or she of this?
Are things of superstitious function
Fit to be us’d in gospel sun-shine?
It is an Antichristian opera,
Much us’d in midnight times of Popery,
Of running after self-inventions
Of wicked and profane intentions;
To scandalize that sex for scolding,
To whom the saints are so beholden.
Women, who were our first apostles
Without whose aid we had been lost else;
Women, that left no stone unturn’d
In which the cause might be concern’d;
Brought in their children’s spoons and whistles,
To purchase swords, carbines, and pistols;
Their husbands, cullies, and sweet-hearts,
To take the saints’ and churches’ parts;
Drew several gifted brethren in,
That for the bishops would have been,
And fix’d ’em constant to the party,
With motives powerful and hearty;
Their husbands robb’d, and made hard shifts
T’ administer unto their gifts
All they could rap, and rend, and pilfer,
To scraps and ends of gold and silver;
Rubb’d down the teachers, tir’d and spent
With holding forth for Parliament:
Pamper’d and edify’d their zeal
With marrow-puddings many a meal;
And led them, with store of meat,
On controverted points to eat;
And cramm’d ’em, till their guts did ake,
With cawdle, custard, and plum-cake:
What have they done, or what left undone,
That might advance the cause at London?
March’d rank and file, with drum and ensign,
T’ intrench the city for defence in;
Rais’d rampiers with their own soft hands,
To put the enemy to stands;
From ladies down to oyster-wenches,
Labour’d like pioneers in trenches;
Fell to their pick-axes, and tools,
And help’d the men to dig like moles.
Have not the handmaids of the city
Chose of their members a committee,
For raising of a common purse
Out of their wages to raise horse?
And do they not as triers sit,
To judge what officers are fit?
Have they ⸻? At that an egg let fly,
Hit him directly o’er the eye,
And running down his cheek, besmear’d
With orange tawny slime his beard;
But beard and slime being of one hue,
The wound the less appear’d in view.
Then he that on the panniers rode,
Let fly on th’ other side a load,
And quickly charg’d again, gave fully
In Ralpho’s face another volley.
The Knight was startled with the smell,
And for his sword began to feel;
And Ralpho, smother’d with the stink,
Grasp’d his; when one that bore a link,
O’ th’ sudden clapp’d his flaming cudgel,
Like linstock, to the horse’s touch-hole;
And straight another with his flambeaux,
Gave Ralpho’s o’er the eye a damn’d blow.
The beasts began to kick and fling,
And forc’d the rout to make a ring,
Through which they quickly broke their way,
And brought them off from further fray;
And though disorder’d in retreat,
Each of them stoutly kept his seat:
For, quitting both their swords and reins,
They grasp’d with all their strength the manes,
And, to avoid the foe’s pursuit,
With spurring put their cattle to’t;
And till all four were out of wind,
And danger too, ne’er look’d behind.
After th’ had paus’d a while, supplying
Their spirits, spent with fight and flying,
And Hudibras recruited force
Of lungs, for action or discourse;
Quoth he, That man is sure to lose
That fouls his hands with dirty foes:
For where no honour’s to be gain’d,
’Tis thrown away in b’ing maintain’d.
’Twas ill for us we had to do
With so dishonourable a foe:
For though the law of arms doth bar
The use of venom’d shot in war,
Yet, by the nauseous smell, and noisome,
Their case-shot savours strong of poison;
And doubtless have been chew’d with teeth
Of some that had a stinking breath;
Else, when we put it to the push,
They have not giv’n us such a brush.
But as those poltroons that fling dirt
Do but defile, but cannot hurt,
So all the honour they have won,
Or we have lost, is much as one,
’Twas well we made so resolute
And brave retreat, without pursuit;
For if we had not, we had sped
Much worse, to be in triumph led;
Than which the ancients held no state
Of man’s life more unfortunate.
But if this bold adventure e’er
Do chance to reach the widow’s ear,
It may, b’ing destin’d to assert
Her sex’s honour, reach her heart;
And as such homely treats (they say)
Portend good fortune, so this may.
Vespasian being daub’d with dirt,105
Was destin’d to the empire for’t;
And from a scavenger did come
To be a mighty prince in Rome:
And why may not this foul address
Presage in
