A self-denying conqueror;
As high, victorious, and great,
As e'er fought for the Churches yet,
If you will give yourself but leave
To make out what y' already have;
That's victory. The foe, for dread
Of
of your nine-worthiness, is fled,
All, save Crowdero, for whose sake
You did th' espous'd Cause undertake;
And he lies pris'ner at your feet,
To be dispos'd as you think meet;
Either for life, or death, or sale,
The gallows, or perpetual jail;
For one wink of your powerful eye
Must sentence him to live or die.
His fiddle is your proper purchase,
Won in the service of the Churches;
And by your doom must be allow'd
To be, or be no more, a crowd.
For though success did not confer
Just title on the conqueror;

Though dispensations were not strong
Conclusions, whether right or wrong;
Although out-goings did confirm,
And owning were but a mere term;

Ce qui plut fort à l'écuyer,

Qui dit ces mots au chevalier :

Grand héros, dont la modestie
Surpasse la gloire infinie,

Vous êtes le plus grand de ceux

Qui pour la cause ont fait des mieux; Plus rien ne manque à votre gloire

Que d'achever votre victoire.

Votre valeur a dissipé

Vos ennemis; il n'est resté
Que Crodéro, cause première
Et boute-feu de cette affaire.
Il est à vos pieds prisonnier,
Et c'est à vous à décider

Si prison, mort, ou l'esclavage,
Sera du traître le partage.

D'un clin d'œil vous fixez son sort,
Ou pour la vie, ou pour la mort.
Son violon, comme sa tête,
Sont à vous par droit de conquête,
Et n'existeront que selon

Que vous le voudrez bien, ou non.
Car, quand même l'on pourrait croire
Le droit de conquête illusoire;
Quand nos dispenses ne seraient
Titres, qui nous garantiraient

Que le nom de propriétaire

N'est qu'un terme dans toute affaire;

Yet as the wicked have no right

To th' creature, though usurp'd by might, The property is in the Saint,

From whom th' injuriously detain 't;

Of him they hold their luxuries,

Their dogs, their horses, whores, and dice,
Their riots, revels, masks, delights,
Pimps, buffoons, fiddlers, parasites;
All which the Saints have title to,
And ought t' enjoy, if th' had their due.
What we take from them is no more
Than what was ours by right before;
For we are their true landlords still,
And they our tenants but at will.

At this the Knight began to rouze,
And by degrees grow valorous.
He star'd about, and seeing none

Of all his foes remain, but one,

He snatch'd his weapon, that lay near him, And from the ground began to rear him; Vowing to make Crowdero pay

For all the rest that ran away.

But Ralpho now, in colder blood,

Cependant comme les méchants
N'ont pas de titres suffisants,
Pour posséder la créature; (160)
Elle est aux saints, et c'est injure
Qu'on leur fait de la retenir.
Ce n'est que sous leur bon plaisir,
Et même selon leur caprice,
( Autrement c'est une injustice)
Qu'ils possèdent chiens, et chevaux,
Bouffons, putains, et maquereaux,
Jeu, bal, musique, et bonne chère,
Et tous les plaisirs sur la terre.
Tout cela des saints est le bien,
Si chacun possédait le sien.

Et ce que nous leur pouvons prendre,
Ce n'est que nous le faire rendre,
Car nous sommes leurs suzerains
Ils n'en sont que fermiers, vilains.
Le chevalier, à ce langage,
Reprit par degrés son courage,
Et voyant tous ses ennemis
Dispersés, et Crodéro pris,
Se jeta sur son cimeterre,
Et puis se relevant de terre,
Jura que Crodéro payerait
Pour tout le reste qui fuyait.
Mais l'écuyer, dont la furie
S'était de beaucoup refroidie,

His fury mildly thus withstood:
Great Sir, quoth he, your mighty spirit
Is rais'd too high this slave does merit
To be the hangman's business, sooner
Than from your hand to have the honour
Of his destruction. I, that am
A nothingness in deed and name,
Did scorn to hurt his forfeit carcase,
Or ill intreat his fiddle or case:
Will you, great Sir, that glory blot
In cold blood, which you gain'd in hot?
Will you employ your conqu'ring sword
To break a fiddle and your word?
For though I fought, and overcame,
And quarter gave, 'twas in your name.
For great commanders always own
What's prosperous by the soldier done.
To save, where you have power to kill,
Argues your power above your will;
And that your will and power have less
Than both might have of selfishness.
This power, which now alive, with dread
He trembles at, if he were dead,
Would no more keep the slave in awe,
Than if you were a Knight of straw;