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

Quoth he, If you’ll join issue on’t,
I’ll give you satisfactory account;
So you will promise, if you lose,
To settle all, and be my spouse.

That never shall be done (quoth she)
To one that wants a tail, by me:
For tails by nature sure were meant,
As well as beards for ornament:
And though the vulgar count them homely,
In men or beast they are so comely,
So gentee, alamode, and handsome,
I’ll never marry man that wants one;
And till you can demonstrate plain,
You have one equal to your mane,
I’ll be torn piecemeal by a horse,
Ere I’ll take you for better or worse.
The Prince of Cambay’s daily food
Is asp, and basilisk, and toad,
Which makes him have so strong a breath,
Each night he stinks a queen to death;
Yet I shall rather lie in ’s arms
Than yours, on any other terms.

Quoth he, What nature can afford,
I shall produce, upon my word;
And if she ever gave that boon
To man, I’ll prove that I have one;
I mean by postulate illation,
When you shall offer just occasion:
But since y’ have yet deny’d to give
My heart, your pris’ner, a reprieve,
But made it sink down to my heel,
Let that at least your pity feel;
And, for the sufferings of your martyr,
Give its poor entertainer quarter;
And, by discharge or mainprize, grant
Deliv’ry from this base restraint.

Quoth she, I grieve to see your leg
Stuck in a hole here like a peg;
And if I knew which way to do’t
(Your honour safe) I’d let you out.
That dames by jail delivery
Of errant-knights have been set free,
When by enchantment they have been,
And sometimes for it, too, laid in,
Is that which knights are bound to do
By order, oath, and honour too:
For what are they renown’d and famous else,
But aiding of distressed damosels?
But for a lady, no ways errant,
To free a knight, we have no warrant
In any authentical romance,
Or classic author yet of France;
And I’d be loth to have you break
An ancient custom for a freak,
Or innovation introduce
In place of things of antique use,
To free your heels by any course,
That might b’ unwholesome to your spurs;
Which, if I should consent unto,
It is not in my pow’r to do;
For ’tis a service must be done ye
With solemn previous ceremony,
Which always has been us’d t’ untie
The charms of those who here do lie:
For as the ancients heretofore
To Honour’s temple had no door
But that which through Virtue’s lay,
So from this dungeon there’s no way
To honour’d freedom, but by passing
That other virtuous school of lashing,
Where knights are kept in narrow lists,
With wooden lockets ’bout their wrists;
In which they for a while are tenants,
And for their ladies suffer penance:
Whipping, that’s Virtue’s governess,
Tut’ress of arts and sciences;
That mends the gross mistakes of Nature,
And puts new life into dull matter;
That lays foundation for renown,
And all the honours of the gown.
This suffer’d, they are set at large,
And freed with hon’rable discharge.
Then in their robes the penitentials
Are straight presented with credentials,
And in their way attended on
By magistrates of ev’ry town:
And, all respect and charges paid,
They’re to their ancient seats convey’d.
Now if you’ll venture, for my sake,
To try the toughness of your back,
And suffer (as the rest have done)
The laying of a whipping on,
(And may you prosper in your suit,
As you with equal vigour do’t,)
I here engage myself to loose ye,
And free your heels from Caperdewsie.
But since our sex’s modesty
Will not allow I should be by,
Bring me, on oath, a fair account,
And honour too, when you have done’t,
And I’ll admit you to the place
You claim as due in my good grace.
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 styl’d;
Then spare the rod, and spoil the child.
A Persian emp’ror whipp’d his grannam,97
The sea, his mother Venus came on;
And hence some rev’rend men approve
Of rosemary in making love.
As skilful coopers hoop their tubs
With Lydian and with Phrygian dubs,
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 whipping,
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 chamber-maids, with love and money,
To break no roguish jests upon ye?
For lilies limn’d on cheeks, and roses,
With painted perfumes, hazard noses?
Or, vent’ring to be brisk and wanton,
Do penance in a paper lantern?
All this you may compound for now,
By suffering 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 Toboso?
Did not th’ illustrious Bassa make
Himself a slave for Miss’s sake?
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,
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,
And firk’d his hide, as if sh’ had rid post;
And after in the sessions-court,
Where whipping’s judg’d, had honour for’t;
This swear you will perform, and then
I’ll set you from the enchanted den,
And the magician’s circle clear.

Quoth he, I do profess and swear,
And will perform what you enjoin,
Or may I never see you mine.

Amen (quoth she;) then turn’d about,
And bid her Squire let him out.
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