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 emperor* whip'd his grannam,
The sea, his mother Venus came on;
And hence some reverend men approve
Of rosemaryt 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 toast 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 chambermaids 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, venturing to be brisk and wanton,
Do penance in a paper lantern?

* Xerxes.

A pun on ros marinus, or sea-dew.

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 the' illustrious Bassat make
Himself a slave for Misse'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;
Tied him stark-naked to a bed-post,
And firk'd his hide, as if she 'ad 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,

*Alluding to Don Quixote's intended penance on the moun.

tain.

+Alluding to Seudery's romance of Ibrahim, the illustrious Bassa; translated by Cogan in 1674.

Another French, or perhaps Italian romance supposed.

But ere an artist could be found
To' 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 to' appear.
The twinkling stars began to muster,
And glitter with their borrow'd lustre,
While sleep the wearied world reliev❜d,
By counterfeiting death reviv'd.
His whipping penance, till the morn,
Our votary thought it best to' adjourn,
And not to carry on a work
Of such importance in the dark,
With erring haste; but rather stay,
And do't in the' open face of day:
And, in the mean time, go in quest
Of next retreat to take his rest.

PART II. CANTO II.

ARGUMENT.

The Knight and Squire in hot dispute,
Within an ace of falling out,

Are parted with a sudden fright
Of strange alarm, and stranger sight;
With which adventuring to stickle,
They're sent away in nasty pickle.

'Tis strange how some men's tempers suit
(Like bawd and brandy) with dispute,
That for their own opinions stand fast
Only to have them claw'd and canvast,
That keep their consciences in cases,
As fiddlers do their crowds and bases:
Ne'er to be us❜d, but when they're bent
To play a fit for argument:

Make true and false, unjust and just,
Of no use but to be discust;
Dispute, and set a paradox,

Like a straight boot upon the stocks,
And stretch it more unmercifully

Than Helmont, Montaigne, White, or Lully.
So the' ancient Stoics, in their porch,
With fierce dispute maintain'd their church,
Beat out their brains in fight and study,
To prove that virtue is a body.

That bonum is an animal,

Made good with stout polemic brawl;

In which some hundreds on the place
Were slain outright, and many a face
Retrench'd of nose, and eyes, and beard,
To maintain what their sect aver❜d.

All which the Knight and Squire, in wrath,
Had like to have suffer'd for their faith;
Each striving to make good his own,
As by the sequel shall be shown.

The sun had long since, in the lap

Of Thetis, taken out his nap,
And, like a lobster boil'd, the morn
From black to red began to turn;

When Hudibras, whom thoughts and aking
'Twixt sleeping kept, all night, and waking,
Began to rub his drowsy eyes,
And from his couch prepar'd to rise,
Resolving to dispatch the deed

He vow'd to do with trusty speed:

But first, with knocking loud and bawling,
He rous'd the Squire, in truckle lolling;
And after many circumstances
Which vulgar authors in romances
Do use to spend their time and wits on,
To make impertinent description,
They got (with much ado) to horse,
And to the Castle bent their course,
In which he to the Dame before
To suffer whipping-duty swore:
Where now arriv'd, and half unharnest,
To carry on the work in earnest,
He stop'd, and paus'd upon the sudden,
And with a serious forehead plodding,
Sprung a new scruple in his head,
Which first he scratch'd, and after said;