If matrimony and hanging go
By dest'ny, why not whipping too?
What med'cine else can cure the fits
Of lovers when they lose their wits?
Love is a boy, by poets styled;
Then spare the rod, and spoil the child.

A Persian Emp'ror whipp'd his grannam,
The Sea,1 his mother Venus came on;
And hence some rev'rend men approve
Of rosemary 2 in making love.
As skilful coopers hoop their tubs
With Lydian and with Phrygian dubs ;3
Why may not whipping have as good
A grace, perform'd in time and mood,
With comely movement, and by art,
Raise passion in a lady's heart?
It is an easier way to make
Love by, than that which many take.
Who would not rather suffer whippin',
Than swallow toasts of bits of ribbon ?
Make wicked verses, treats, and faces,
And spell names over, with beer-glasses?
Be under vows to hang and die
Love's sacrifice, and all a lie?
With China oranges and tarts,

And whining plays, lay baits for hearts?
Bribe chambermaids with love and money,
To break no roguish jests upon ye?
For lilies limn'd on cheeks, and roses,
With painted perfumes, hazard noses?

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1 'A Persian Emperor,' &c.: Xerxes, who used to whip the seas and wind.--

3 เ

2 'Rosemary' ros marinus—sea-dew; alluding to the fable of Venus rising from the sea-foam. — 3 With Lydian and with Phrygian dubs:' alluding to the Lydian and Phrygian measures of music.

Or vent'ring to be brisk and wanton,
Do penance in a paper lanthorn?
All this you may compound for now,
By suff'ring what I offer you;
Which is no more than has been done
By knights for ladies long agone.
Did not the great La Mancha do so
For the Infanta Del Taboso ?
Did not th' illustrious Bassa make
Himself a slave for Misse's sake ;1
And with bull's pizzle, for her love,
Was taw'd as gentle as a glove?
Was not young Florio sent (to cool
His flame for Biancafiore) to school,2
Where pedant made his pathic bum
For her sake suffer martyrdom?
Did not a certain lady whip,
Of late, her husband's own lordship;
And, though a grandee of the House,
Claw'd him with fundamental blows;
Ty'd him stark naked to a bed-post,

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And firk'd his hide, as if sh' had rid post;
And after in the Sessions-court,

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Where whipping's judged, had honour for 't?
This swear you will perform, and then
I'll set you from th' enchanted den,
And the Magician's circle, clear.

Quoth he, I do profess and swear,

And will perform what you enjoin,
may I never see you mine.

Or

Amen (quoth she), then turn'd about,

And bid her Squire let him out.

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1 Misse's sake:' in Scudery's romance. 2 Florio sent to school:' a

story of Florio and Biancafiore in French.

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 lantern 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 relieved,
By counterfeiting Death revived.
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 meantime go in quest
Of next retreat to take his rest.

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CANTO II.

THE ARGUMENT.

The Knight and Squire, in hot dispute,
Within an ace of falling out,

Are parted with a sudden fright

Of strange alarm, and stranger sight;
With which adventuring to stickle,
They 're sent away in nasty pickle.

'Tis strange how some men's tempers suit
(Like bawd and brandy) with dispute;
That for their own opinions stand fast
Only to have them claw'd and canvass'd;
That keep their consciences in cases,
As fiddlers do their crowds and bases,
Ne'er to be used but when they 're bent
To play a fit for argument;

Make true and false, unjust and just,
Of no use but to be discuss'd;

Dispute, and set a paradox,

Like a strait boot, upon the stocks,
And stretch'd it more unmercifully
Than Helmont, Montaigne, White, or Tully.
So th' ancient Stoics, in their porch,

With fierce dispute maintain'd their church,
Beat out their brains in fight and study,
To prove that virtue is a body;
That bonum 1 is an animal,

Made good with stout polemic brawl;
In which some hundreds on the place
Were slain outright, and many a face

1' Bonum:' good.

Retrench'd of nose, and eyes, and beard,

To maintain what their sect averr'd.

All which the Knight and Squire, in wrath
Had like t' have suffer'd for their faith,
Each striving to make good his own.
As by the sequel shall be shown.

The Sun had long since in the lap
Of Thetis taken out his nap,
And, like a lobster boil'd, the Morn
From black to red began to turn;

When Hudibras, whom thoughts and aching
"Twixt sleeping kept, all night, and waking,

Began to rub his drowsy eyes,

And from his couch prepared to rise,
Resolving to despatch the deed

He vow'd to do, with trusty speed.

But first, with knocking loud, and bawling,
He roused 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-duty swore,

Where now arrived, and half unharness'd,
To carry on the work in earnest,
He stopp'd, and paused 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 infringeing,

An oath, if I should waive this swingeing,