Which I, her Sword-Bearer, do carry, Nor fhall these Words of Venom base, Thou down the fame Throat fhalt devour 'em, With Gantlet blue and Bases white, With words far bitterer than Wormwood, That would in Job or Grizel ftir Mood, This faid, with hafty Rage he fnatch'd Vowing that he should ne'er ftir further, But Pallas came in fhape of Ruft, Inftead of Shield, the Blow receiv'd. And fhrunk from its great Mafter's gripe, Then Hudibras with furious hafte Drew out his Sword; yet not fo faft, But Talgol firft with hardy thwack Twice bruis'd his Head, and twice his Back. But when his nut-brown Sword was out, With ftomach huge he laid about, Wound upon Imprinting many a His mortal Foe the Truncheon The trufty Cudgel did oppose To To guard its Leader from fell bane, And though the Sword (fome understood) Though Iron hew and mangle fore, Wood wounds and bruifes Honour more ; By cunning flight for had it hit ら The Upper part of him, the Blow Had flit, as fure as that below. Mean while th' Incomparable Colon, While none that faw them could divine That two fhould with fo many Men vye, Of Steed, with Pricks as Sharp as Nail. The angry Beaft did ftraight refent The wrong done to his Fundament, Begun |