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 fuffer whipping,
Than fwallow toafts of bits of ribbin?
Make wicked verses, traits, and faces,

855

And spell names over with beer-glasses ?

860

Be under vows to hang and die

Love's facrifice, and all a lie?

With China-oranges and tarts,

And whining-plays, lay baits for hearts?

Bribe chambermaids with love and money, 865
To break no roguish jests upon ye?
For lilies limn'd on cheeks, and rofes,
With painted perfumes, hazard noses ?

Or, vent'ring to be brifk and wanton,
Do penance in a paper lanthorn?
All this you may compound for now,
By fuff'ring what I offer you;

870

Which is no more than has been done

By knights for ladies long agone.

875

Did not the great La Mancha do so
For the Infanta Del Tobofo?

Did not th' illuftrious Baffa make
Himself a flave for Miffe's fake,
And with bull's pizzle, for her love,
Was taw'd as gentle as a glove?
Was not young Florio fent, to cool
His flames for Biancafiore, to school,
Where pedant made his pathic bum
For her fake fuffer martyrdom?

Did not a certain lady whip,

Of late, her husband's own lordship?

880

885

And, tho' a grandee of the house,

Claw'd him with fundamental blows;
Ty'd him stark-naked to a bed-post,

And firk'd his hide, as if fh' had rid post; 890
And after in the feffions court,

Where whipping's judg'd, had honour for 't?
This fwear you will perform, and then
I'll fet you from th' enchanted den,
And the magician circle, clear.

Quoth he, I do profess and swear,
And will perform what you enjoin,
Or may I never see you mine.

Amen, quoth fhe, then turn'd about,
And bid her squire let him out.
But ere an artist could be found

T' undo the charms another bound,
The fun grew low, and left the skies,
Put down, fome write, by ladies' eyes.

895

900

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 luftre and her fhade,
And in the night as freely fhone,
As if her rays had been her own :
For darkness is the proper sphere
Where all false glories use t' appear.
The twinkling ftars began to muster,
And glitter with their borrow'd lustre,
While fleep the weary'd world reliev'd,
By counterfeiting death reviv’d.
Our vot❜ry thought it best t' adjourn
His whipping penance till the morn,
And not to carry on a work

Of fuch importance, in the dark,

905

910

915

920

With erring haste, but rather stay,
And do't i' th' open face of day;

And in the mean time go in quest

Of next retreat, to take his rest.

L.Refs sculp.

Part 2. Canto 1. Line 175.

924