When Hudibras this language heard,

He prick'd up's ears, and strok'd his beard:
Thought he, this is the lucky hour;
Wines work when vines are in the flow'r;
This crifis then I'll fet my reft on,

And put her boldly to the question.

Madam, What you would seem to doubt, Shall be to all the world made out;

How I've been drobb'd, and with what fpirit And magnanimity I bear it;

And if you doubt it to be true,

I'll take myself down against you:
And if I fail in love or troth,

Be you the winner, and take both.

Quoth fhe, I've heard old cunning stagers
Say, fools for arguments ufe wagers;
And though I prais'd your valour, yet
I did not mean to baulk your wit;
Which if you have, you must needs know
What I have told you before now,
And you b'experiment have prov'd,
I cannot love where I'm belov'd.

Quoth Hudibras, 'Tis a caprich,
Beyond th'infliction of a witch;
So cheats to play with thofe ftill aim,
That do not understand the game.
Love in your heart as idly burns,
As fire in antique Roman urns,
To warm the dead, and vainly light
Thofe only that fee nothing by't.

Have you not pow'r to entertain,
And render love for love again;
As no man can draw in his breath
At once, and force out air beneath?
Or do you love yourself fo much,
To bear all rivals else a grutch?
What fate can lay a greater curfe
Than you upon yourself would force?
For wedlock without love, fome fay,
Is but a lock without a key.
It is a kind of rape to marry
One that neglects, or cares not for ye:
For what does make it ravishment,
But b'ing against the mind's confent?
A rape that is the more inhuman,
For being acted by a woman.
Why are you fair, but to entice us.
To love you, that you may defpife us?
But though you cannot love, you fay,
Out of your own fanatic way,
Why should you not at least allow
Thofe that love you to do so too?
For as you fly me, and purfue
Love more averse, so I do you;
And am by your own doctrine taught
To practise what you call a fault.
Quoth fhe, If what you say is true,

You must fly me as I do you;
But 'tis not what we do, but fay,

In love and preaching, that must sway.

Quoth he, To bid me not to love, Is to forbid my pulse to move,

My beard to grow, my ears to prick up,
Or, when I'm in a fit, to hickup:
Command me to pifs out the moon,
And 'twill as easily be done.

Love's pow'r's too great to be withstood
By feeble human flesh and blood.
'Twas he that brought upon his knees
The hect'ring kill-cow Hercules;
Transform'd his leager-lion's fkin
T'a petticoat, and made him spin;
Seiz'd on his club, and made it dwindle
T'a feeble diftaff, and a spindle.
'Twas he that made emperors gallants
To their own fifters, and their aunts;
Set popes and cardinals agog,

To play with pages at leap-frog.

"Twas he that gave our fenate purges,
And flux'd the house of many a burgess;
Made thofe that represent the nation,
Submit, and fuffer amputation;
And all the grandees o'th'cabal
Adjourn to tubs, at fpring and fall.
He mounted fynod-men, and rode 'em
To Dirty-lane, and Little Sodom;
Made 'em curvet, like Spanish jennets,
And take the ring at Madam-

'Twas he that made Saint Francis de

More than the devil could tempt him to;

In cold and frosty weather grow
Enamour'd of a wife of fnow;

And though the were of rigid temper,
With melting flames accost and tempt her;
Which after in enjoyment quenching,
He hung a garland on his engine.

Quoth fhe, If love have these effects,
Why is it not forbid our fex?
Why is't not damn'd and interdicted
For diabolical and wicked?

And fung, as out of tune, against,
As Turk and Pope are by the faints ?
I find I've greater reafon for it
Than I believ'd before, t'abhor it.

Quoth Hudibras, These fad effects
Spring from your heathenish neglects
Of love's great pow'r, which he returns
Upon yourselves with equal fcorns;
And those who worthy lovers flight,
Plagues with prepoft'rous appetite.
This made the beauteous queen of Crete
To take a town-bull for her sweet;
And from her greatnefs stoop fo low,
To be the rival of a cow:

Others to prostitute their great hearts,
To be baboons and monkeys sweet-hearts.
Some with the dev'l himself in league grow

By's representative a negro.

"Twas this made vestal-maids love-fick, And venture to be bury'd quick :

Some by their fathers, and their brothers
To be made miftreffes and mothers.
'Tis this that proudest dames enamours
On lacquies, and valets de chambres;
Their haughty stomachs overcomes,
And makes them stoop to dirty grooms;
To flight the world, and to disparage
Claps, iffues, infamy, and marriage.

Quoth fhe, Thefe judgments are fsevere,
Yet fuch as I should rather bear,

Than trust men with their oaths, or prove
Their faith and fecrecy in love.

Says he, there is as weighty reason
For fecrecy in love, as treason.
Love is a burglarer, a felon,

That at the window-eye does steal in
To rob the heart, and with his prey
Steals out again a closer way;
Which whofoever can discover,
He's fure (as he deferves) to fuffer.
Love is a fire, that burns and sparkles
In men as nat❜rally as in charcoals,
Which footy chymifts ftop in holes,
When out of wood they extract coals;
So lovers fhould their paffions choke,
That though they burn, they may not smoke.
'Tis like that fturdy thief that stole

And dragg'd beasts backwards into's hole:

So love does lovers, and us men

Draws by the tails into his den;