Still ready to be rent and torn,

With red-hot irons to be tortur'd,
Revil'd, and spit upon, and martyr'd;
Maugre all which, 'twas to stand fast,
As long as monarchy should last;

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But when the state should hap to reel,

'Twas to submit to fatal steel, And fall, as it was consecrate, A sacrifice to fall of state;

Whose thread of life the fatal sisters

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Did twist together with its whiskers,

And twine so close, that time should never,

In life or death, their fortunes sever;

But with his rusty sickle mow

Both down together at a blow.
So learned Taliacotius, from
The brawny part of porter's bum,
Cut supplemental noses, which
Would last as long as parent breech:

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But when the date of Nock was out,

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Off dropt the sympathetic snout.

His back, or rather burden, show'd,
As if it stoop'd with its own load.
For as Æneas bore his sire
Upon his shoulders through 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.

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To poise this equally, he bore

A paunch of the same 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 the country-house affords;
With other victual, which anon
We further shall dilate upon,

When of his hose we come to treat,

The cupboard where he kept his meat.
His doublet was of sturdy buff,

And though not sword, yet cudgel-proof;
Whereby 'twas fitter for his use,

Who fear'd no blows but such as bruise.

And till th' were storm'd and beaten out,

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Ne'er left the fortify'd redoubt.

And though knights-errant, as some think,
Of old did neither eat nor drink,

Because when thorough desarts vast

And regions desolate they past,
Where belly-timber above ground,
Or under, was not to be found,

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Unless they graz'd, there's not one word
Of their provisions on record;

Which made some confidently write,
They had no stomachs but to fight:
'Tis false: for Arthur wore in hall
Round table like a farthingale,
On which, with shirt pall'd out behind,.
And eke before, his good knights din'd:
Though 'twas no table, some suppose,
But a huge-pair of round trunk-hose;
In which he carried as much meat

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As he and all the knights could eat,

When laying by their swords and truncheons,

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They took their breakfast on their nuncheons.
But let that pass at present, lest

We should forget where we digrest;

As learned authors use, to whom
We leave it, and to th' purpose come.

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His puissant sword unto his side, Near his undaunted heart was ty'd;

With basket-hilt, that would hold broth,

And serve for fight and dinner both.

In it he melted lead for bullets,

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To shoot at foes and sometimes pullets;

To whom he bore so fell a gratch,

He ne'er gave quarter t' any such.
The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty,

For want of fighting was grown rusty,
And ate into itself, for lack
Of some body to hew and hack.
The peaceful scabbard where it dwelt,
The rancour of its edge had felt;

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For of the lower end two handful.
It had devoured, 'twas so manful,

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And so much scorn'd to lurk in case,

As if it durst not shew its face,

In many desperate attempts,
Of warrants, exigents, contempts,
It had appear'd with courage bolder
Than Serjeant Bum invading shoulder.
Oit had it ta'en possession,

And pris'ners too, or made them run.

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This sword a dagger had his page,
That was but little for his age;
And therefore waited on him so,
As dwarfs upon knights-errants do.
It was a serviceable dudgeon,
Either for fighting or for drudging.
When it had stabb'd, or broke a head,
It would scrape trenchers, or chip bread;

Toast cheese or bacon, though it were

To bait a mouse-trap, 'twould not care.

'Twould make clean shoes, and in the earth
Set leeks and onions, and so forth.
It had been 'prentice to a brewer,
Where this and more it did endure;
But left the trade as many more
Have lately done on the same score.

In th' holsters at his saddle-bow
Two aged pistols he did stow,
Among the surplus of such meat

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As in his hose he could not get.

These would inveigle rats with th' scent,

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To forage when the cocks were bent;

And sometimes catch them with a snap,
As cleverly as th' ablest trap.

They were upon hard duty still,

And ev'ry night stood centinel,

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To guard the magazine i' th' hose,

From two-legg'd and from four-legg'd foes.
Thus clad and fortify'd, Sir Knight,

From peaceful home set forth to fight.

But first with nimble active force,
He got on th' outside of his horse;
For having but oue stirrup ty'd,
This saddle on the further side,
It was so short, h' had much ado,
To reach it with his desperate toe,
But, after many strains and heaves,
He got up to the saddle eaves;

From whence he vaulted into th' seat,

With so much vigour, strength, and heat,

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That he had almost tumbled over,
With his own weight; but did recover,
By laying hold on tail and main,
Which oft he us'd instead of rein.

But now we talk of mounting steed,
Before we further do proceed,
It doth behove us to say something,
Of that which bore our valiant bumpkin;
The beast was sturdy, large, and tall,
With mouth of meal, and eyes of wall;
I would say eye: for h' had but one,
As most agree, though some say none.
He was well stay'd, and in his gait,
Preserv'd a grave, majestic state.
At spur or switch no more he skipp'd,
Or mended pace, than Spaniard whipp'd:
And yet so fiery, he would bound,

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As if he griev'd to touch the ground;

That Cæsar's horse, who, as fame goes,

Had corns upon his feet and toes,

Was not by half so tender-hooft,

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Nor trod upon the ground so soft.

And as that beast would kneel and stoop, (Some write) to take his rider up;

So Hudibras his, 'tis well known,

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His strutting ribs on both sides show'd
Like furrows he himself had plow'd:
For underneath the skirt of pannel,
"Twixt every two there was a channel.
His draggling tail hung in the dirt,
Which on his rider he should flirt,

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Still as his tender side he prick'd

With arm'd heel, or with unarm'd, kick'd:

For Hudibras wore but one spur,

As wisely knowing could he stir