Tho' it contributed its own fall,
To wait upon the public downfal:
It was canonic, and did grow
In holy orders by strict vow:
Of rule as fullen and fevere
As that of rigid Cordeliere:
"Twas bound to fuffer perfecution
And martyrdom with resolution;
T'oppose itself against the hate
And vengeance of th' incensed state:
In whose defiance it was worn,
Still ready to be pull'd and torn,
With red-hot irons to be tortur'd,
Revil'd, and spit upon, and martyr'd:
Maugre all which, 'twas to ftand faft,
As long as monarchy should last;
But when the state should hap to reel,
'Twas to fubmit to fatal fteel,
And fall, as it was confecrate,
A facrifice to fall of state;
Whose thread of life the fatal fisters
Did twist together with its whiskers,
And twine fo close, that Time should never,
In life or death, their fortunes fever;
But with his rufty fickle mow
Both down together at a blow.
So learned Taliacotius, from
The brawny part of porter's bum,
Cut fupplemental noses, which
Would last as long as parent breech:
But when the date of Nock was out,
Off dropt the sympathetic snout.
His back, or rather burthen, fhow'd
As if it stoop'd with its own load.
For as Æneas bore his fire
Upon his fhoulders thro' the fire,
Our knight did bear no less a pack
Of his own buttocks on his back:
Which now had almost got the upper-
Hand of his head, for want of crupper.
To poife this equally, he bore
A paunch of the fame bulk before:
Which still he had a special care
To keep well cramm'd with thrifty fare;
As white-pot, butter-milk, and curds,
Such as a country-house affords;
With other victual, which anon
We farther fhall dilate upon,
When of his hofe we come to treat,
The cup-board where he kept his meat.
His doublet was of sturdy buff,
And though not fword, yet cudgel-proof,
Whereby 'twas fitter for his use,
Who fear'd no blows but fuch as bruife.
His breeches were of rugged woollen,
And had been at the fiege of Bullen;
To old King Harry fo well known,
Some writers held they were his own.
Thro' they were lin'd with many a piece
Of amunition-bread and cheese,
And fat black-puddings, proper food
For warriors that delight in blood:
For, as we said, he always chose
To carry vittle in his hofe,
That often tempted rats and mice,
The ammunition to furprise :
And when he put a hand but in
And tho' knights errant, as some think,
Of old did neither eat nor drink,
Because when thorough defarts vaft,
And regions defolate, they past,
Where belly-timber above ground,
Or under, was not to be found,
Unless they graz'd, there's not one word
Of their provision on record :
Which made fome confidently write,
They had no stomachs but to fight.
'Tis falfe for Arthur wore in hall
Round table like a farthingal,
On which, with fhirt pull'd out behind,
And eke before, his good knights din'd.
Tho' 'twas no table some suppose,
But a huge pair of round trunk-hofe:
In which he carry'd as much meat,
As he and all his knights could eat,
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