The catalogue and character Of th' enemies' best men of war, Whom in a bold harangue the Knight Defies and challenges to fight:
H' encounters Talgol, routs the Bear, And takes the Fiddler prisoner, Conveys him to enchanted castle,
There shuts him fast in wooden Bastile.
THERE was an ancient sage philosopher That had read Alexander Ross over, And swore the world, as he could prove, Was made of fighting and of love. Just so Romances are, for what else Is in them all but love and battles?
O' th' first of these w' have no great matter To treat of, but a world o' th' latter, In which to do the injured right
We mean, in what concerns just fight. Certes our authors are to blame
For to make some well-sounding name A pattern fit for modern knights To copy out in frays and fights
(Like those that a whole street do raze To build a palace in the place). They never care how many others They kill, without regard of mothers, Or wives, or children, so they can Make up some fierce dead-doing man,
Compos'd of many ingredient valours, Just like the manhood of nine tailors: So a wild Tartar, when he spies A man that's handsome, valiant, wise, If he can kill him, thinks t' inherit His wit, his beauty, and his spirit; As if just so much he enjoy'd, As in another is destroy'd:
For when a giant's slain in fight,
And mow'd o'erthwart, or cleft downright, It is a heavy case, no doubt,
A man should have his brains beat out, Because he's tall and has large bones, As men kill beavers for their stones.
But as for our part, we shall tell The naked truth of what befell, And as an equal friend to both
The Knight and Bear, but more to Troth, With neither faction shall take part,
But give to each his due desert, And never coin a formal lie on't
To make the knight o'ercome the giant. This b'ing profest, we've hopes enough, And now go on where we left off.
They rode, but authors having not Determin'd whether pace or trot (That is to say, whether tollutation, As they do term 't, or succussation), We leave it, and go on, as now Suppose they did, no matter how; Yet some, from subtle hints, have got Mysterious light it was a trot; But let that pass: they now begun To spur their living engines on:
For as whipp'd tops and bandy'd balls, The learned hold, are animals ; So horses they affirm to be
Mere engines made by Geometry, And were invented first from engines,
As Indian Britains were from Penguins. So let them be, and, as I was saying, They their live engines ply'd, not staying Until they reach'd the fatal champain Which th' enemy did then encamp on ; The dire Pharsalian plain, where battle Was to be wag'd 'twixt puissant cattle, And fierce auxiliary men,
That came to aid their brethren, Who now began to take the field, As Knight from ridge of steed beheld. For as our modern wits behold,
Mounted a pick-back on the old,
Much further off, much further he,
Rais'd on his aged beast, could see;
Yet not sufficient to descry
All postures of the enemy,
Wherefore he bids the Squire ride further, T'observe their numbers and their order, That, when their motions he had known, He might know how to fit his own. Mean-while he stopp'd his willing steed, To fit himself for martial deed: Both kinds of metal he prepar'd, Either to give blows or to ward; Courage and steel, both of great force,
Courage within, and steel without, To give and to receive a rout.'
Prepar'd for better or for worse. His death-charg'd pistols he did fit well, Drawn out from life-preserving vittle; These being prim'd, with force he labour'd To free 's sword from retentive scabbard, And after many a painful pluck, From rusty durance he bail'd tuck: Then shook himself, to see that prowess In scabbard of his arms sat loose; And, rais'd upon his desp'rate foot, On stirrup-side he gaz'd about, Portending blood, like blazing star, The beacon of approaching war. Ralpho rode on with no less speed Than Hugo in the forest did; But far more in returning made, For now the foe he had survey'd, Rang'd, as to him they did appear, With van, main-battle, wings and rear. I' th' head of all this warlike rabble, Crowdero march'd expert and able;
92 VAR. He clear'd at length the rugged tuck.'
99 100 VAR. The Squire advanc'd with greater speed Than could b' expected from his steed :'
101 102 VAR. But with a great deal' more 'return'd,' For now the foe he had discern'd.'
106 So called from croud,' a fiddle: This was one Jackson, a milliner, who lived in the New Exchange in the Strand. He had formerly been in the service of the Roundheads, and had lost a leg in it; this brought him to decay, so that he was obliged to scrape upon a fiddle, from one ale-house to another, for his bread. Mr. Butler very judiciously places him at the head of his catalogue: for country diversions are generally attended with a fiddler or bagpiper.
Instead of trumpet and of drum,
That makes the warrior's stomach come, Whose noise whets valour sharp, like beer By thunder turn'd to vinegar ;
(For if a trumpet sound or drum beat
Who has not a month's mind to combat?) A squeaking engine he apply'd Unto his neck, on north-east side, Just where the hangman does dispose To special friends the knot of noose :
For 'tis great grace when statesmen straight Dispatch a friend, let others wait.
His warped ear hung o'er the strings, Which was but souse to chitterlings: For guts, some write, ere they are sodden, Are fit for music or for pudden; From whence men borrow ev'ry kind Of minstrelsy by string or wind. His grisly beard was long and thick, With which he strung his fiddlestick, For he to horse-tail scorn'd to owe For what on his own chin did grow: Chiron, the four-legg'd bard, had both A beard and tail of his own growth, And yet by authors 'tis averr'd He made use only of his beard. In Staffordshire, where virtuous worth Does raise the minstrelsy, not birth, Where bulls do choose the boldest king And ruler o'er the men of string
(As once in Persia, 'tis said,
Kings were proclaim'd by a horse that neigh'd), He, bravely vent'ring at a crown,
By chance of war was beaten down,
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