And by discharge, or main-prize, grant
Deliv'ry 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.
But '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;
811. The manner in which the poet so repeatedly dilates on the subject of whipping, may lead to a suspicion that something more is meant thereby than appears at first sight: there is very good foundation for such a suspicion; but the circumstance alluded to is connected with the physical matters, which, as I have above stated, are reserved for another occasion.
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:
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 dest'ny, why not whipping too?
This swear you will perform, and then
I'll set you from th' inchanted den,
And the magician's circle, clear.
Quoth he, I do profess and swear,
And will perform what you injoin,
Or I never see you mine.
Amén, 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 lanthorn 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 vot❜ry 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.
When Hudibras, whom thoughts and aking, 'Twixt sleeping kept all night, and waking,
Began to rub his drowsy eyes,
And from his couch prepar'd to rise,
Resolving to dispatch the deed
He vow'd to do, with trusty speed.
But first, with knocking loud, and bawling,
He rous'd the squire, in truckle lolling :
And, after many circumstances,
Which vulgar authors in romances
Do use to spend their time and wits on,
To make impertinent description,
They got, with much ado, to horse,
And to the castle bent their course,
In which he to the dame before
To suffer whipping duly swore:
Where now arriv'd, and half unharnest,
To carry on the work, in earnest,
He stopp'd, and paus'd upon the sudden,
And with a serious forehead plodding,
Sprung a new scruple in his head,
Which first he scratch'd, and after said:
Whether it be direct infringing
An oath, if I should wave this swinging,
And what I've sworn to bear, forbear,
And so b'equivocation swear;
Or whether't be a lesser sin
To be forsworn, than act the thing,
Are deep and subtil points, which must,
T'inform my conscience, be discust;
In which to err a tittle, may
To errors infinite make way:
And therefore I desire to know
Thy judgment, ere we farther
Quoth Ralpho, Since you do injoin't,
I shall enlarge upon the point;
64, 65. These lines refer to the moon, under the idea of her being, as considered by the ancients, a planet.
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