part 1, page 87.

Looking about, beheld Pernicion
Approaching Knight from fell Mufician,
He fnatch't his Whinyard up, that fled
When he was falling off his Steed,
(As Rats do from a falling House,)
To hide it felf from Rage of Blows;
And wing'd with speed and fury, flew
To rescue Knight from black and blue.
Which e'er he could Atchieve, his Sconce
The Leg encountr❜d twice and once;
And now 'twas rais'd to fmite agen,
When Ralpho thruft himself between,
He took the Blow upon
his Arm,

To fhield the Knight from further Harm;
And joyning Wrath with Force, beftow'd
O'th' Wooden Member fach a Load,

That down it fell, and with it bore
Crowdero, whom it prop'd before.
To him the Squire right nimbly run,
And fetting conquering Foot upon
His Trunk, thus fpoke: What defp'rate Frenzy
Made thee, (thou Whelp of Sin) to fancy

Thy

Thy felf and all that Coward Rabble
T'encounter us in Battle able?

How durft th' I fay, oppofe thy Curship
'Gainft Arms, Authority, aud Worship?
And Hudibras, or me provoke,

Though all thy Limbs were Heart of Oake,
And th' other half of thee as good

To bear out Blows as that of Wood ?
Could not the Whipping-Poft prevail
With all its Rhet'rick, nor the Jayl,
To keep from flaying Scourge thy Skin,
And Ancle free from Iron Gin?

Which now thou fhalt----but firft our care

Muft fee how Hudibras doth fare.
This faid, he gently rais'd the Knight,
And fet him on his Bum upright:
To rouze him from Lethargick Dump,
He tweak'd his Nofe, with gentle Thump
Knock'd on his Breaft, as if t' had been
To raife the Spirits lodg'd within.
They, wakened with the Noife, did fly
From inward Room to Window Eye,

And

And gently op'ning Lid, the Cafement,
Look't out, but yet with fome Amaemzent.
This gladded Ralpho much to fee,

Who thus bespoke the Knight: quoth he,
Tweaking his Nose, you are, great Sir,
A Self-denying Conqueror;

As High, Victorious and Great,
As e'er fought for the Churches yet,

If

you will give your felf but leave To make out what y' already have; That's Victory. The Foe for dread Nine-Worthinefs, is fled,

Of

your

All, fave Crowdero, for whofe fake
You did th'efpous'd Caufe undertake:
And he lies Pris'ner at your Feet,
To be difpos'd as you think meet,
Either for Life, or Death, or Sale,
The Gallows, or perpetual Jayl.
For one wink of your pow'rful Eye
Must sentence him to live, or dye.
His Fiddle is your proper purchace,
Won in the Service of the Churches;

And