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 deed doing steel
All over, but the Pagan heel:
So did our champions arms defend
All of him, but the other end :
His head and ears, which in the martial
Encounter loft a leathern parcel.
For as an Auftrian Archduke once
Had one ear (which in ducatoons
Is half the coin) in battle par'd
Close to his head; fo Bruin far'd:
But tugg'd and pull'd on th’other fide,
Like fcriv'ner newly crucify'd;
Or like the late corrected leathern
Ears of the circumcised brethren.
But gentle Trulla, into th' ring
He wore in's nose, convey'd a string,
With which the march'd before, and led
The warrior to a graffy bed,

As authors write, in a cool fhade,
Which eglantine and rofes made;
Close by a foftly murm'ring stream,
Where lovers us'd to loll and dream.
There leaving him to his repofe,
Secured from purfuit of foes,
And wanting nothing but a fong,
And a well-tun'd Theorbo hung

Upon a bough, to case the pain
His tugg'd ears fuffer'd; with a ftrain
They both drew up, to march in quest
Of his great leader, and the rest.

For Orfin (who was more renown'd
For ftout maintaining of his ground
In standing fight, than for pursuit,
As being not fo quick of foot)
Was not long able to keep pace
With others that purfu'd the chace;
But found himself left far behind,
Both out of heart, and out of wind;
Griev'd to behold his bear purfu'd
So bafely 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 the lofs of Hylas;
Forcing the valleys to repeat
The accents of his fad regret.

He beat his breaft, and tore his hair,
For lofs of his dear crony bear:
That Echo, from the hollow ground,
His doleful wailings did refound
More wiftfully, by many times,
Than in small poets fplay-foot rhymes,
That make her, in their rueful stories,
To answer to int'rrogatories,

And most unconscionably depofc

To things of which the nothing knows:

Nor did I turn my back for fear
O'th'rafcals, but loss of my bear,
Which now I'm like to undergo;
For whether thofe fell wounds, or no,
He has receiv'd in fight, are mortal,
Is more than all my skill can foretel;
Nor do I know what is become

Of him, more than the pope of Romo.
But if I can but find them out

That caus'd it, (as I fhall 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 Orfin, th'haft
Great reafon to do as thou fay'ft,
And fo has ev'ry body here,
As well as thou haft, or thy bear.
Others may do as they fee 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 t'other mungrel vermin, Ralph,
That brav'd us all in his behalf.

Thy bear is fafe, and out of peril,

Though lugg'd indeed, and wounded very ill : Myfelf 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 fafe enough:

There let him reft; for if we stay,
The flaves may hap to get away.

This faid, they all engag'd to join
Their forces in the fame defign:
And forthwith put themselves in fearch
Of Hudibras upon their march.
Where leave we them a while to tell
What the victorious knight befel;
For fuch, Crowdero being faft
In dungeon fhut, we left him last.
Triumphant laurels feem'd to grow
No where fo green as on his brow:
Laden with which, as well as tir'd,
With conqu'ring toil, he now retir'd
Into a neighb'ring castle by,
To reft his body, and apply

Fit med'cines to each glorious bruise
He got in fight, reds, blacks, and blues,
To mollify th'uneafy pang

Of ev'ry honourable bang,

Which b'ing by skilful midwife dreft,
He laid him down to take his reft.
But all in vain. H'had got a hurt
On th'infide, of a deadlier fort,
By Cupid made, who took his ftand
Upon a widow's jointure land,
(For he, in all his am'rous battles,
No'dvantage finds like goods and chattles,)
Drew home his bow, and aiming right,
Let fly an arrow at the knight;

The shaft against a rib did glance,

And gall'd him in the purtenance.

But time had somewhat 'fwag'd his pain,
After he found his fuit in vain.

For that proud dame, for whom his foul
Was burnt in's belly like a coal,
(That belly that so oft did ake,

And fuffer griping for her fake;
Till purging comfits and ants eggs
Had almost brought him off his legs,)
Us'd him fo like a base rascallion,

That old Pyg-(what d'y' call him) malion,
That cut his mistress out of stone,

Had not fo hard a hearted one.

She had a thousand jadish tricks,

Worfe than a mule that flings and kicks;
'Mong which one cross-grain'd trick she had,
As infolent as ftrange and mad:

She could love none but only fuch
As fcorn'd and hated her as much.
"Twas a strange riddle of a lady,
Not love, if any lov'd her: hey day!
So cowards never use their might,
But against fuch as will not fight.
So fome diseases have been found
Only to feize upon the found.

He that gets her by heart, must say her
The back way, like a witch's prayer.
Mean while the knight had no small task,
To compass what he durst not ask: