A Saxon duke did grow fo fat,

That mice, as hiftories relate,

Ate grots and labyrinths to dwell in
His postique parts, without his feeling ;
Then how is 't poffible a kick

Should e'er reach that way to the quick ?

Quoth fhe, I grant it is in vain,
For one that's basted to feel pain;
Because the pangs his bones endure,
Contribute nothing to the cure;
Yet honour hurt, is wont to rage
With pain no med'cine can affuage.

Quoth he, that honour's very squeamish
That takes a basting for a blemish :

For what's more honourable than scars,
Or skin to tatters rent in wars?
Some have been beaten till they know
What wood a cudgel's of by th' blow;

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Some kick'd, until they can feel whether
A fhoe be Spanish or neats-leather :

And yet have met, after long running,

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With fome whom they have taught that cunning. The furtheft way about, t' o'ercome,

I' th' end does prove th' nearest home;

By laws of learned duellists,

They that are bruis'd with wood, or fists, 230

And think one beating may for once
Suffice, are cowards and poltrons:

But if they dare engage t' a second,

They 're ftout and gallant fellows reckon'd.

Th' old Romans freedom did beftow; Our princes worship, with a blow:

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King Pyrrhus cur'd his splenetic

And tefty courtiers with a kick.
The Negus, when some mighty lord
Or potentate's to be restor'd,

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And pardon'd for fome great offence,
With which he's willing to difpenfe,
First has him laid upon his belly,
Then beaten back and fide, t' a jelly;
That done, he rises, humbly bows,

And gives thanks for the princely blows;
Departs not meanly proud, and boafting
Of his magnificent rib-roafting.

The beaten foldier proves moft manful,

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That, like his fword, endures the anvil,

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And justly's found fo formidable,

The more his valour 's malleable :

But he that bears a baftinado,

Will run away from his own fhadow :

And though I'm now in durance fast,

By our own party basely cast,
Ransom, exchange, parole, refus'd,
And worse than by the en'my us'd;

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In close catasta shut, paft hope
Of wit or valour to elope;

As beards, the nearer that they tend
To th' earth, still grow more reverend ;
And cannons shoot the higher pitches,
The lower we let down their breeches;
I'll make this low dejected fate

Advance me to a greater height.

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Quoth fhe, you've almost made m'in love
With that which did my pity move.
Great wits and valours, like great states,
Do fometimes fink with their own weights:

Th' extremes of glory and of shame,
Like east and weft, become the fame.
No Indian prince has to his palace

More foll'wers than a thief to the gallows.
But if a beating seem so brave,
What glories must a whipping have?

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Such great atchievements cannot fail
To caft falt on a woman's tail:
For if I thought your nat'ral talent
Of paffive courage were so gallant,
As you strain hard to have it thought,
I could grow amorous, and dote.

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When Hudibras this language heard, He prick'd up's ears, and ftrok'd his beard; Thought he, this is the lucky hour,

Wines work when vines are in the flower:

This crisis then I'll fet my rest on,

And put her boldly to the quft'on.

Madam, what you would feem to doubt,

Shall be to all the world made out,

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How I've been drubb'd, and with what fpirit, And magnanimity, I bear it;

And if doubt it to be true, you

I'll stake myself down against you :