His wrath inflam'd boil'd o'er, and from
His jaws of death he threw the foam :
Fury in stranger postures threw him,
And more than herald ever drew him.
He tore the earth which he had sav'd
From squelch of Knight, and storm'd and rav'd, And vex'd the more because the harms
He felt were 'gainst the law of arms:
For men he always took to be
His friends, and dogs the enemy;
Who never so much hurt had done him,
As his own side did falling on him.
It griev'd him to the guts that they
For whom h' had fought so many a fray,
And serv'd with loss of blood so long,
Should offer such inhuman wrong;
Wrong of unsoldier-like condition:
For which he flung down his commission;
And laid about him, till his nose
From thrall of ring and cord broke loose. 900 Soon as he felt himself enlarg'd,
Through thickest of his foes he charg'd,
And made way through th' amazed crew;
Some he o'erran, and some o'erthrew,
But took none; for by hasty flight
He strove t' escape pursuit of Knight;
From whom he fled with as much haste
And dread as he the rabble chas'd.
In haste he fled, and so did they;
Each and his fear a several way.
Crowdero only kept the field;
Not stirring from the place he held,
Though beaten down and wounded sore,
I' th' fiddle, and a leg that bore
One side of him; not that of bone,
But much its better, th' wooden one.
He spying Hudibras lie strow'd
Upon the ground, like log of wood,
With fright of fall, supposed wound,
And loss of urine, in a swound,
In haste he snatch'd the wooden limb,
That hurt i' th' ankle lay by him,
And fitting it for sudden fight,
Straight drew it up t' attack the Knight;
For getting up on stump and huckle,
He with the foe began to buckle;
Vowing to be reveng'd for breach
Of crowd and skin upon the wretch,
Sole author of all detriment
He and his fiddle underwent.
But Ralpho (who had now begun
T'adventure resurrection
From heavy squelch, and had got up
Upon his legs, with sprained crup)
Looking about, beheld pernicion
Approaching Knight from fell musician.
He snatch'd his whinyard up, that fled
When he was falling off his steed
(As rats do from a falling house,)
To hide itself from rage of blows;
And, wing'd with speed and fury, flew
To rescue Knight from black and blue;
Which ere he could achieve, his sconce
The leg encounter'd twice and once;
And now 'twas rais'd to smite agen,
When Ralpho thrust himself between.
He took the blow upon his arm,
To shield the Knight from further harm;
And, joining wrath with force, bestow'd
On th' wooden member such a load,
That down it fell, and with it bore
Crowdero, whom it propp'd before.
To him the Squire right nimbly run,
And setting conquering foot upon
His trunk, thus spoke: What desp'rate frenzy
Made thee (thou whelp of sin !) to fancy 956
Thyself, and all that coward rabble,
T'encounter us in battle able?
How durst th', I say, oppose thy curship
'Gainst 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?
Could not the whipping-post prevail,
With all its rhet'ric, nor the jail,
To keep from flaying scourge thy skin,
And ankle free from iron gin?
Which now thou shalt-But first our care
Must see how Hudibras doth fare.
This said, he gently rais'd the Knight,
And set him on his bum upright.
To rouse him from lethargic dump,
He tweak'd his nose; with gentle thump
Knock'd on his breast, as if't had been
To raise the spirits lodg'd within.
They, waken'd with the noise, did fly
From inward room to window eye;
And gently opening lid, the casement,
Look'd out, but yet with some amazement. 980
This gladded Ralpho much to see,
Who thus bespoke the Knight: quoth he,
Tweaking his nose, You are, great Sir,
A self-denying conqueror;
As high, victorious, and great,
As e'er fought for the churches yet.
If you will give yourself but leave
To inake out what y' already have;
That's victory. The foe, for dread
Of your nine-worthiness, is fled;
All, save Crowdero, for whose sake
You did th' espous'd'cause undertake;
And he lies pris'ner at your feet,
To be dispos'd as you think meet;
Either for life, or death, or sale,
The gallows, or perpetual jail;
For one wink of your pow'rful eye
Must sentence him to live or die.
His fiddle is your proper purchase,
Won in the service of the churches:
And by your doom must be allow'd
To be, or be no more, a crowd.
For though success did not confer
Just title on the conqueror;
Though dispensations were not strong
Conclusions whether right or wrong;
Although out-going did confirm,
And owning were but a mere term;
Yet as the wicked have no right
To th' creature, though usurp'd by might, 1010
The property is in the saint,
From whom th' injuriously detain 't;
Of him they hold their luxuries,
Their dogs, their horses, whores, and dice,
Their riots, revels, masks, delights,
Pimps, buffoons, fiddlers, parasites;
All which the saints have title to,
And ought t' enjoy, if th' had their due.
What we take from them is no more
Than what was ours by right before;
For we are their true landlords still,
And they our tenants but at will.
At this the Knight began to rouse,
And by degrees grow valorous,
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
For all the rest that ran away.
But Ralpho now, in colder blood,
His fury mildly thus withstood:
Great Sir, quoth he, your mighty spirit
Is rais'd too high: this slave does merit
To be the hangman's business, sooner
Than from your hand to have the honour
Of his destruction. I, that am
A nothingness in deed and name,
Did scorn to hurt his forfeit carcass,
Or ill intreat his fiddle or case:
Will you, great Sir, that glory blot
In cold blood, which you gain'd in hot?
Will you employ your conq'ring sword
To break a fiddle and your word?
For though I fought, and overcame,
And quarter gave, 'twas in your name,
For great commanders only own
What's prosperous by the soldier done.
To save, where you have pow'r to kill,
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
Wou'd no more keep the slave in awe,
Than if you were a knight of straw:
For death wou'd then be his conqueror,
Not you, and free him from that terror.
If danger from his life accrue,
Or honour from his death, to you,
"Twere policy and honour too,
To do as you resolv'd to do;
But, Sir, 'twould wrong your valour much,
To say it needs or fears a crutch.
Great conquerors greater glory gain
By foes in triumph led, than slain:
The laurels that adorn their brows
Are pull'd from living, not dead boughs,
And living foes: the greatest fame
Of cripple slain can be but lame.
One half him's already slain,
The other is not worth your pain;
Th' honour can but on one side light,
As worship did, when y' were dubb'd knight.
Wherefore I think it better far
To keep him prisoner of war,
And let him fast in bonds abide,
At court of justice to be try'd;
Where, if he appear so bold and crafty,
There may be danger in his safety.
If any member there dislike
His face, or to his beard have pique;
Or if his death will save or yield
Revenge or fright, it is reveal'd,
Though he has quarter, ne'er the less
Y' have power to hang him when you please.
This has been often done by some
Of our great conq'rors, you know whom;
And has by most of us been held
Wise justice, and to some reveal'd:
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