Hudibras Samuel Butler (free novels to read TXT) đ
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of blows;
And, wingâd with speed and fury, flew
To rescue Knight from black and blue;
Which, eâer he could achieve, his sconce
The leg encounterâd twice and once;
And now âtwas raisâd to smite agen,
When Ralpho thrust himself between.
He took the blow upon his arm,
To shield the Knight from further harm;
And, joining wrath with force, bestowâd
On thâ wooden member such a load,
That down it fell, and with it bore
Crowdero, whom it proppâd before.
To him the Squire right nimbly run,
And setting conquering foot upon
His trunk, thus spoke: What despârate frenzy
Made thee (thou whelp of sin!) to fancy
Thyself, and all that coward rabble,
Tâ encounter us in battle able?
How durst thâ, I say, oppose thy curship
âGainst arms, authority, and worship?
And Hudibras or me provoke,
Though all thy limbs, were heart of oak,
And thâ other half of thee as good
To bear out blows, as that of wood?
Could not the whipping-post prevail,
With all its rhetâric, nor the jail,
To keep from flaying scourge thy skin,
And ankle free from iron gin?
Which now thou shaltâ âBut first our care
Must see how Hudibras doth fare.
This said, he gently raisâd the Knight,
And set him on his bum upright.
To rouse him from lethargic dump,
He tweakâd his nose; with gentle thump
Knockâd on his breast, as if ât had been
To raise the spirits lodgâd within.
They, wakenâd with the noise, did fly
From inward room to window eye;
And gently opâning lid, the casement,
Lookâd out, but yet with some amazement.
This gladded Ralpho much to see,
Who thus bespoke the Knight: quoth he,
Tweaking his nose, You are, great Sir,
A self-denying conqueror;
As high, victorious, and great,
As eâer fought for the churches yet,
If you will give yourself but leave
To make out what yâ already have;
Thatâs victory. The foe, for dread
Of your nine-worthiness, is fled;
All, save Crowdero, for whose sake
You did thâ espousâd cause undertake;
And he lies prisâner at your feet,
To be disposâd 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 allowâd
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;
Yet as the wicked have no right
To thâ creature, though usurpâd by might,
The property is in the saint,
From whom thâ injuriously detain ât;
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 tâ enjoy, if thâ had their due.
What we take from them is no more
Than what was ourâs by right before;
For we are their true landlords still,
And they our tenants but at will.
At this the Knight began to rouse,
And by degrees grow valorous,
He starâd about, and seeing none
Of all his foes remain but one,
He snatchâd 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,
His fury mildly thus withstood:
Great Sir, quoth he, your mighty spirit
Is raisâd too high: this slave does merit
To be the hangmanâs 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 carcass,
Or ill intreat his fiddle or case:
Will you, great Sir, that glory blot
In cold blood which you gainâd in hot?
Will you employ your conquâring sword
To break a fiddle and your word?
For though I fought, and overcame,
And quarter gave, âtwas in your name,
For great commanders only own
Whatâs prosperous by the soldier done.
To save, where you have powâr to kill,
Argues your powâr above your will;
And that your will and powâr have less
Than both might have of selfishness.
This powâr 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:
For death would then be his conqueror;
Not you, and free him from that terror.
If danger from his life accrue,
Or honour from his death, to you,
âTwere policy, and honour too,
To do as you resolvâd to do;
But, Sir, âtwould wrong your valour much,
To say it needs or fears a crutch.
Great conquerors greater glory gain
By foes in triumph led, than slain:
The laurels that adorn their brows
Are pullâd from living not dead boughs,
And living foes: the greatest fame
Of cripple slain can be but lame.
One half of himâs already slain,
The other is not worth your pain;
Thâ honour can but on one side light,
As worship did, when yâ were dubbâd knight.
Wherefore I think it better far
To keep him prisoner of war,
And let him fast in bonds abide,
At court of justice to be tryâd;
Where, if he appear so bold and crafty,
There may be danger in his safety.
If any member there dislike
His face, or to his beard have pique;
Or if his death will save or yield
Revenge or fright, it is revealâd,
Though he has quarter, neâer the less
Yâ have power to hang him when you please.
This has been often done by some
Of our great conquârors, you know whom;
And has by most of us been held
Wise Justice, and to some revealâd:
For words and promises, that yoke
The conqueror, are quickly broke;
Like Samsonâs cuffs, though by his own
Direction and advice put on.
For if we should fight for the Cause
By rules of military laws,
And only do what they call just,
The Cause would quickly fall to dust.
This we among ourselves may speak;
But to the wicked, or the weak,
We must be cautious to declare
Perfection-truths, such as these are.
And, wingâd with speed and fury, flew
To rescue Knight from black and blue;
Which, eâer he could achieve, his sconce
The leg encounterâd twice and once;
And now âtwas raisâd to smite agen,
When Ralpho thrust himself between.
He took the blow upon his arm,
To shield the Knight from further harm;
And, joining wrath with force, bestowâd
On thâ wooden member such a load,
That down it fell, and with it bore
Crowdero, whom it proppâd before.
To him the Squire right nimbly run,
And setting conquering foot upon
His trunk, thus spoke: What despârate frenzy
Made thee (thou whelp of sin!) to fancy
Thyself, and all that coward rabble,
Tâ encounter us in battle able?
How durst thâ, I say, oppose thy curship
âGainst arms, authority, and worship?
And Hudibras or me provoke,
Though all thy limbs, were heart of oak,
And thâ other half of thee as good
To bear out blows, as that of wood?
Could not the whipping-post prevail,
With all its rhetâric, nor the jail,
To keep from flaying scourge thy skin,
And ankle free from iron gin?
Which now thou shaltâ âBut first our care
Must see how Hudibras doth fare.
This said, he gently raisâd the Knight,
And set him on his bum upright.
To rouse him from lethargic dump,
He tweakâd his nose; with gentle thump
Knockâd on his breast, as if ât had been
To raise the spirits lodgâd within.
They, wakenâd with the noise, did fly
From inward room to window eye;
And gently opâning lid, the casement,
Lookâd out, but yet with some amazement.
This gladded Ralpho much to see,
Who thus bespoke the Knight: quoth he,
Tweaking his nose, You are, great Sir,
A self-denying conqueror;
As high, victorious, and great,
As eâer fought for the churches yet,
If you will give yourself but leave
To make out what yâ already have;
Thatâs victory. The foe, for dread
Of your nine-worthiness, is fled;
All, save Crowdero, for whose sake
You did thâ espousâd cause undertake;
And he lies prisâner at your feet,
To be disposâd 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 allowâd
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;
Yet as the wicked have no right
To thâ creature, though usurpâd by might,
The property is in the saint,
From whom thâ injuriously detain ât;
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 tâ enjoy, if thâ had their due.
What we take from them is no more
Than what was ourâs by right before;
For we are their true landlords still,
And they our tenants but at will.
At this the Knight began to rouse,
And by degrees grow valorous,
He starâd about, and seeing none
Of all his foes remain but one,
He snatchâd 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,
His fury mildly thus withstood:
Great Sir, quoth he, your mighty spirit
Is raisâd too high: this slave does merit
To be the hangmanâs 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 carcass,
Or ill intreat his fiddle or case:
Will you, great Sir, that glory blot
In cold blood which you gainâd in hot?
Will you employ your conquâring sword
To break a fiddle and your word?
For though I fought, and overcame,
And quarter gave, âtwas in your name,
For great commanders only own
Whatâs prosperous by the soldier done.
To save, where you have powâr to kill,
Argues your powâr above your will;
And that your will and powâr have less
Than both might have of selfishness.
This powâr 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:
For death would then be his conqueror;
Not you, and free him from that terror.
If danger from his life accrue,
Or honour from his death, to you,
âTwere policy, and honour too,
To do as you resolvâd to do;
But, Sir, âtwould wrong your valour much,
To say it needs or fears a crutch.
Great conquerors greater glory gain
By foes in triumph led, than slain:
The laurels that adorn their brows
Are pullâd from living not dead boughs,
And living foes: the greatest fame
Of cripple slain can be but lame.
One half of himâs already slain,
The other is not worth your pain;
Thâ honour can but on one side light,
As worship did, when yâ were dubbâd knight.
Wherefore I think it better far
To keep him prisoner of war,
And let him fast in bonds abide,
At court of justice to be tryâd;
Where, if he appear so bold and crafty,
There may be danger in his safety.
If any member there dislike
His face, or to his beard have pique;
Or if his death will save or yield
Revenge or fright, it is revealâd,
Though he has quarter, neâer the less
Yâ have power to hang him when you please.
This has been often done by some
Of our great conquârors, you know whom;
And has by most of us been held
Wise Justice, and to some revealâd:
For words and promises, that yoke
The conqueror, are quickly broke;
Like Samsonâs cuffs, though by his own
Direction and advice put on.
For if we should fight for the Cause
By rules of military laws,
And only do what they call just,
The Cause would quickly fall to dust.
This we among ourselves may speak;
But to the wicked, or the weak,
We must be cautious to declare
Perfection-truths, such as these are.
This said, the high outrageous mettle
Of Knight began to cool and settle.
He likâd the Squireâs advice, and soon
Resolvâd to see the business done;
And therefore chargâd him first to bind
Crowderoâs hands on rump behind,
And to its former place and use
The wooden member to reduce;
But force it take an oath before,
Neâer to bear arms against him more.
Ralpho dispatched with speedy haste,
And having tyâd Crowdero fast,
He gave Sir Knight the end of cord,
To lead the captive of his sword
In triumph, whilst the steeds he caught,
And them to further service brought.
The Squire in state rode on before,
And
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