Hudibras - Samuel Butler (story reading txt) 📗

The scatter’d rout return and rally,
Surround the place; the Knight does sally,
And is made pris’ner: then they seize
Th’ enchanted fort by storm, release
Crowdero, and put th’ Squire in’s place;
I should have first said Hudibras.

Ah me! what perils do environ
The man that meddles with cold iron;
What plaguy mischiefs and mishaps
Do dog him still with after-claps!
For though dame Fortune seem to smile
And leer upon him for a while,
She’ll after show him, in the nick
Of all his glories, a dog-trick.
This any man may sing or say,
I’ th’ ditty call’d, What if a Day?
For Hudibras, who thought h’ had won
The field, as certain as a gun;
And having routed the whole troop,
With victory was cock-a-hoop;
Thinking h’ had done enough to purchase
Thanksgiving-day among the churches,
Wherein his mettle, and brave worth,
Might be explain’d by Holder-forth,
And register’d, by fame eternal,
In deathless pages of diurnal;
Found in few minutes, to his cost,
He did but count without his host;
And that a turnstile is more certain
Than, in events of war, dame Fortune.

For now the late faint-hearted rout,
O’erthrown, and scatter’d round about,
Chas’d by the horror of their fear,
From bloody fray of Knight and Bear
(All but the dogs, who, in pursuit
Of the Knight’s victory, stood to’t,
And most ignobly fought to get
The honour of his blood and sweat.)
Seeing the coast was free and clear
O’ th’ conquer’d and the conqueror,
Took heart again, and fac’d about,
As if they meant to stand it out:
For by this time the routed Bear,
Attack’d by th’ enemy i’ th’ rear,
Finding their number grew too great
For him to make a safe retreat,
Like a bold chieftain, fac’d about;
But wisely doubting to hold out,
Gave way to fortune, and with haste
Fac’d the proud foe, and fled, and fac’d;
Retiring still, until he found
H’ had got the advantage of the ground;
And then as valiantly made head
To check the foe, and forthwith fled;
Leaving no art untry’d, nor trick
Of warrior stout and politic,
Until, in spite of hot pursuit,
He gain’d a pass, to hold dispute
On better terms, and stop the course
Of the proud foe. With all his force
He bravely charg’d, and for a while
Forc’d their whole body to recoil;
But still their numbers so increas’d,
He found himself at length oppress’d;
And all evasions so uncertain,
To save himself for better fortune,
That he resolv’d, rather than yield,
To die with honour in the field,
And sell his hide and carcase at
A price as high and desperate
As e’er he could. This resolution
He forthwith put in execution,
And bravely threw himself among
The enemy i’ th’ greatest throng;
But what could single valour do
Against so numerous a foe?
Yet much he did, indeed too much
To be believ’d, where th’ odds were such.
But one against a multitude
Is more than mortal can make good:
For while one party he oppos’d,
His rear was suddenly inclosed;
And no room left him for retreat,
Or fight against a foe so great.
For now the mastiffs, charging home,
To blows and handy gripes were come:
While manfully himself he bore,
And setting his right foot before,
He rais’d himself, to show how tall
His person was above them all.
This equal shame and envy stirr’d
In th’ enemy, that one should beard
So many warriors, and so stout,
As he had done, and stav’d it out,
Disdaining to lay down his arms,
And yield on honourable terms.
Enraged thus, some in the rear
Attack’d him, and some ev’ry where,
Till down he fell; yet falling fought,
And, being down, still laid about;
As Widdrington, in doleful dumps,
Is said to light upon his stumps.

But all, alas! had been in vain,
And he inevitably slain,
If Trulla and Cerdon, in the nick,
To rescue him had not been quick;
For Trulla, who was light of foot
As shafts which long-field Parthians shoot,
(But not so light as to be borne
Upon the ears of standing corn,
Or trip it o’er the water quicker
Than witches, when their staves they liquor,
As some report,) was got among
The foremost of the martial throng:
There pitying the vanquish’d bear,
She call’d to Cerdon, who stood near,
Viewing the bloody fight; to whom,
Shall we (quoth she) stand still hum-drum,
And see stout Bruin all alone,
By numbers basely overthrown?
Such feats already h’ has achiev’d,
In story not to be believed;
And ’twould to us be shame enough,
Not to attempt to fetch him off.
I would (quoth he) venture a limb
To second thee, and rescue him;
But then