Forcing the valleys to repeat
The accents of his sad regret.
He beat his breast, and tore his hair,
For loss of his dear crony Bear ;
That Echo, from the hollow ground,
His doleful wailings did resound
More wistfully, by many times,"
Than in small poet's' splay-foot rhymes
That make her, in their ruthful stories,
To answer to interr'gatories,
And most unconscionably depose
To things of which she nothing knows;
And when she has said all she can say,
"Tis wrested to the lover's fancy.
Quoth he, O whither, wicked Bruin,
Art thou fled to my ?—(Echo), Ruin.
I thought th' hadst scorn'd to budge a step,
For fear. (Quoth Echo), Marry guep.
Am not I here to take thy part;
Then what has quail'd thy stubborn heart?
Have these bones rattled, and this head
So often in thy quarrel bled?
Nor did I ever wince or grudge it,
For thy dear sake. (Quoth she), Mum, budget. Think'st thou 'twill not be laid i̇' th' dish
Thou turn'dst thy back? (Quoth Echo), Pish. 210
To run from those th' hadst overcome
Thus cowardly? (Quoth Echo), Mum.
But what a vengeance makes thee fly
From me too, as thine enemy?
Or, if thou hast no thought of me,
Nor what I have endured for thee,
1 Small poet:' he means-proh pudor!-Sir Philip Sidney.
Yet shame and honour might prevail
To keep thee thus from turning tail:
For who would grutch to spend his blood in
His honour's cause? (Quoth she), A puddin.
This said, his grief to anger turn'd,
Which in his manly stomach burn'd;
Thirst of revenge, and wrath, in place
Of sorrow, now began to blaze.
He vow'd the authors of his woe
Should equal vengeance undergo,
And with their bones and flesh pay dear
For what he suffer'd, and his Bear.
This being resolved, with equal speed
And rage he hasted to proceed
To action straight, and giving o'er
To search for Bruin any more,
He went in quest of Hudibras,
To find him out where'er he was;
And, if he were above ground, vow'd
He'd ferret him, lurk where he would.
But scarce had he a furlong on
This resolute adventure gone,
When he encounter'd with that crew
Whom Hudibras did late subdue.
Honour, revenge, contempt, and shame
Did equally their breasts inflame.
'Mong these the fierce Magnano was,
And Talgol, foe to Hudibras ;
Cerdon and Colon, warriors stout,
And resolute, as ever fought;
Whom furious Orsin thus bespoke :
Shall we (quoth he) thus basely brook
The vile affront that paltry ass,
And feeble scoundrel, Hudibras,
With that more paltry ragamuffin,
Ralpho, with vapouring and huffing,
Have put upon us, like tame cattle,
As if th' had routed us in battle?
For my part, it shall ne'er be said,
I for the washing gave my head;
Nor did I turn my back for fear
O' th' rascals, but loss of
my Bear,
Which now I'm like to undergo;
For whether these fell wounds, or no,
He has received in fight, are mortal,
Is more than all my skill can foretel;
Nor do I know what is become
Of him more than the Pope of Rome.
But if I can but find them out
That caused it (as I shall no doubt,
Where'er th' in hugger-mugger lurk),
I'll make them rue their handy-work,
And wish that they had rather dared
To pull the Devil by the beard.
Quoth Cerdon, Noble Orsin, th' hast
Great reason to do as thou say'st;
And so has ev'ry body here,
As well as thou hast, or thy Bear:
Others may do as they see good,
But if this twig be made of wood
That will hold tack, I'll make the fur
Fly 'bout the ears of that old cur,
And th' other mongrel vermin, Ralph,
That braved us all in his behalf.
Thy Bear is safe, and out of peril,
Though lugg'd indeed, and wounded very
Myself and Trulla made a shift
To help him out at a dead lift;
And having brought him bravely off,
Have left him where he's safe enough:
There let him rest; for if we stay,
The slaves may hap to get away.
This said, they all engaged to join
Their forces in the same design;
And forthwith put themselves in search
Of Hudibras, upon their march.
Where leave we them a while, to tell
What the victorious Knight befel.
For such, Crowdero being fast
In dungeon shut, we left him last.
Triumphant laurels seem'd to grow
Nowhere so green as on his brow;
Laden with which, as well as tired
With conqu❜ring toil, he now retired
Unto a neighbouring castle by,
To rest his body, and apply
Fit med'cines to each glorious bruise
He got in fight, reds, blacks, and blues;
To mollify th' uneasy pang
Of ev'ry honourable bang,
Which being by skilful midwife dress'd,
He laid him down to take his rest.
But all in vain: h' had got a hurt
O' th' inside, of a deadlier sort,
By Cupid made, who took his stand
Upon a widow's jointure land;
(For he, in all his am'rous battles,
No 'dvantage finds like goods and chattels),
Drew home his bow, and, aiming right,
Let fly an arrow at the Knight;
The shaft against a rib did glance,
And gall him in the purtenance;
But time had somewhat 'swaged his pain,
After he found his suit in vain :
For that proud dame, for whom his soul
Was burnt in 's belly like a coal
(That belly that so oft did ake,
And suffer griping for her sake,
Till purging comfits, and ants' eggs,
Had almost brought him off his legs),
Used him so like a base rascallion,
That old Pyg-(what d' y' call him?)—malion,
That cut his mistress out of stone,
Had not so hard a hearted one.
She had a thousand jadish tricks,
Worse than a mule that flings and kicks;
'Mong which one cross-grain'd freak she had,
As insolent as strange and mad―
She could love none but only such
As scorn'd and hated her as much.
'Twas a strange riddle of a lady:
Not love, if any loved her-Hey-day!
So cowards never use their might,
But against such as will not fight;
So some diseases have been found
Only to seize upon the sound:
He that gets her by heart must say her
The back way, like a witch's prayer.
Meanwhile the Knight had no small task
To compass what he durst not ask:
He loves, but dares not make the motion;
Her ignorance is his devotion:
Like caitiff vile, that for misdeed
Rides with his face to rump of steed;
Or rowing scull,' he's fain to love,
Look one way, and another move;
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