Hudibras, Samuel Butler [types of ebook readers TXT] 📗

we must about it straight,
Or else our aid will come too late.
Quarter he scorns, he is so stout,
And therefore cannot long hold out.
This said, they wav’d their weapons round
About their heads, to clear the ground;
And joining forces, laid about
So fiercely, that th’ amazed rout
Turn’d tail again, and straight begun,
As if the Devil drove, to run.
Meanwhile th’ approach’d th’ place where Bruin
Was now engag’d to mortal ruin.
The conqu’ring foe they soon assail’d;
First Trulla stav’d, and Cerdon tail’d,74
Until their mastiffs loos’d their hold:
And yet, alas! do what they could,
The worsted Bear came off with store
Of bloody wounds, but all before:
For as Achilles, dipt in pond,
Was anabaptiz’d free from wound,
Made proof against dead-doing steel
All over, but the Pagan heel;
So did our champion’s arms defend
All of him, but the other end,
His head and ears, which, in the martial
Encounter, lost a leathern parcel:
For as an Austrian archduke once
Had one ear (which in ducatoons
Is half the coin) in battle par’d
Close to his head, so Bruin far’d;
But tugg’d and pull’d on th’ other side,
Like scriv’ner newly crucify’d;
Or like the late corrected leathern
Ears of the circumcised brethren.75
But gentle Trulla into th’ ring
He wore in’s nose, convey’d a string,
With which she march’d before, and led
The warrior to a grassy bed.
As authors write, in a cool shade,
Which eglantine and roses made;
Close by a softly murm’ring stream,
Where lovers us’d to loll and dream.
There leaving him to his repose,
Secured from pursuit of foes,
And wanting nothing but a song,
And a well-tun’d theorbo hung
Upon a bough, to ease the pain
His tugg’d ears suffer’d, with a strain,
They both drew up, to march in quest
Of his great leader and the rest.

For Orsin (who was more renown’d
For stout maintaining of his ground
In standing fight, than for pursuit,
As being not so quick of foot)
Was not long able to keep pace
With others that pursu’d the chase;
But found himself left far behind,
Both out of heart and out of wind:
Griev’d to behold his bear pursu’d
So basely by a multitude;
And like to fall, not by the prowess,
But numbers of his coward foes.
He rag’d and kept as heavy a coil as
Stout Hercules for loss of Hylas;
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 poets splay-foot rhymes
That make her, in their rueful stories,
To answer to int’rogatories,
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 quelled thy stubborn heart?
Have these bones rattled, and this head
So often in thy quarrel bled?
Nor did I ever winch or grudge it,
For thy dear sake. Quoth she, Mum budget.
Think’st thou ’twill not be laid i’ th’ dish
Thou turn’dst thy back? Quoth Echo, Pish.
To run from those th’ hast 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 endur’d for thee,
Yet shame and honour might prevail
To keep thee thus from turning tail:
For who would grudge 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 b’ing resolv’d, 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,
As 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 those fell wounds, or no,
He has receiv’d in fight, are mortal,
Is more than all my skill can foretell
Nor do I know what is become
Of him, more than the pope of Rome.
But if I can but find them out
That caus’d 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 dar’d
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 brav’d us all in his behalf.
Thy bear is safe, and out of peril,
Though lugg’d indeed, and wounded very ill;
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 engag’d to join
Their forces in the same design;
And forthwith put themselves in search
Of Hudibras upon their march.
Where leave we awhile, 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
No where so green as on his brow;
Laden with which, as well as tir’d
With conquering toil he now retir’d
Unto a neighb’ring castle by,
To rest his body,