To him the Squire right nimbly run,
And fetting conqu'ring foot upon

955 His trunk, thus fpoke: what defp'rate frenzy
Made thee, thou whelp of fin, to fancy
Thyfelf and all that coward rabble,
T'encounter us in battle able?

How durft th', I fay, oppofe thy curfhip 960 'Gainft 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?
965 Could not the whipping-poft prevail
With all its rhet'ric, nor the jail,
To keep from flaying fcourge thy fkin,
And ankle free from iron gin?

Which now thou fhalt- but first our care 970 Muft fee how Hudibras doth fare.

This faid, he gently rais'd the knight,
And fet him on his bum upright :
To roufe him from lethargic dump,
He tweak'd his nofe, with gentle thump
975 Knock'd on his breast, as if't had been
To raise the fpirits lodg'd within.
They, waken'd with the noise, did fly
From inward room, to window eye,
And gently op'ning lid, the cafement,
980 Look'd out, but yet with fome amasement.
This gladded Ralpho much to see,

Who thus bespoke the knight: Quoth he,
Tweaking his nofe, you are, great Sir,
A felf-denying conqueror;

985 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 990 Of your nine-worthinefs, is fled,

995

All, fave Crowdero, for whofe fake
You did th' efpous'd cause undertake :
And he lies pris'ner at your feet,
To be difpos'd, as you think meet,
Either for life, or death, or fale,
The gallows, or perpetual jail.
For one wink of your pow'rful eye
Muft fentence him to live or die.
His fiddle is your proper purchase,
1000 Won in the fervice of the churches
And by your doom must be allow'd
To be, or be no more, a crowd.
For though fuccefs did not confer
Just title on the conqueror;
1005 Though difpenfations were not strong
Conclufions, whether right or wrong;
Although out-goings did confirm,

And owning were but a mere term:
Yet as the wicked have no right

1010 To th' creature, though ufurp'd by might, The property is in the faint,

From whom th' injuriously detain't;
Of him they hold their luxuries,

Their dogs, their horses, whores, and dice, 1015 Their riots, revels, masks, delights, Pimps, buffoons, fiddlers, parafites;

All which the faints have title to,
And ought t' enjoy, if th' had their due.
What we take from 'em is no more

1020 Than what was ours by right before.

For we are their true landlords ftill, And they our tenants but at will. At this the knight began to rouze, And by degrees grow valorous. 1025 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 1030 For all the rest that ran away.

But Ralpho now, in colder blood, His fury mildly thus withstood: Great Sir, quoth he, your mighty fpirit Is rais'd too high; this flave does merit 1035 To be the hangman's bus'nefs, fooner Than from your hand to have the honour Of his deftruction; I that am

A nothingness in deed and name, Did fcorn to hurt his forfeit carcafs, 1040 Or ill intreat his fiddle or cafe: Will you, great Sir, that glory blot In cold blood, which you gain'd in hot? Will you employ your conqu'ring fword, To break a fiddle and your word? 1045 For though I fought, and overcame, And quarter gave, 'twas in your name. For great commanders always own What's profperous by the foldier done. To fave, where you have pow'r to kill, 1050 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,

1055 Would no more keep the flave 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,

1060 Or honour from his death, to you;
'Twere policy and honour too,
To do as you refolv❜d to do :

But, Sir, 'twould wrong your valour much, To fay it needs or fears a crutch. 1065 Great conqu'rors greater glory gain

By foes in triumph led, than flain :
The laurels that adorn their brows
Are pull'd from living, not dead boughs,
And living foes: the greatest fame
1070 Of cripple flain can be but lame.
One half of him's already flain

The other is not worth your pain ;
Th' honour can but on one fide light,

As worship did when y' were dubb'd knight.

1075 Wherefore I think it better far,

To keep him prisoner of war;

And let him faft in bonds abide,
At court of justice to be try'd:
Where if h' appear fo bold or crafty,
1080 There may be danger in his fafety :
If any member there dislike

His face, or to his beard have pique ;
Or if his death will fave or yield,
Revenge or fright, it is reveal'd ;

1085 Though he has quarter, ne'ertheless

Y' have pow'r to hang him when you please;
This has been often done by fome

Of our great conqu'rors, you know whom :

And has by most of us been held 1090 Wife justice, and to fome reveald.

For words and promifes, that yoke
The conqueror, are quickly broke ;
Like Samfon's cuffs, though by his own.
Direction and advice put on.

1095 For if we fhould fight for the canfe,
By rules of military laws,

And only do what they call juft,
The caufe would quickly fall to duft.
This we among ourselves may speak;
1100 But to the wicked or the weak,
We must be cautious to declare
Perfection-truths, fuch as thefe are.

This faid, the high, outragious mettle
Of knight began to cool and fettle.
1105 He lik'd the Squire's advice, and foon
Refolv'd to fee the bus'nefs done :
And therefore charg'd him first to bind
Crowdero's hands on rump behind,
And to its former place and use
1110 The wooden member to reduce,
But force it take an oath before,
Ne'er to bear arms against him more.

Ralpho difpatch'd with speedy haste,
And having ty'd Crowdero faft,
1115 He gave Sir Knight the end of cord,
To lead the captive of his sword

In triumph, whilft the fteeds he caught,
And them to further fervice brought.
The fquire in ftate rode on before
1120 And on his nut-brown whinyard bore
The trophy fiddle and the cafe,

Leaning on fhoulder like a mace.