The learned hold, are animals;
So horses they affirm to be
Mere engines made by geometry;
And were invented first from engines,
As Indian Britons were from Penguins. 60
So let them be; and, as I was saying,
They their live engines ply’d, not staying
Until they reach’d the fatal champain,
Which th’ enemy did then encamp on;
The dire Pharsalian plain, where battle 65
Was to be wag’d ’twixt puissant cattle
And fierce auxiliary men,
That came to aid their brethren,
Who now began to take the field,
As Knight from ridge of steed beheld. 70
For as our modern wits behold,
Mounted a pick-back on the old,
Much further oft; much further he,
Rais’d on his aged beast cou’d see;
Yet not sufficient to descry 75
All postures of the enemy;
Wherefore he bids the Squire ride further,
T’ observe their numbers, and their order;
That when their motions he had known
He might know how to fit his own. 80
Meanwhile he stopp’d his willing steed,
To fit himself for martial deed. 
Both kinds of metal he prepar’d,
Either to give blows, or to ward: 
Courage and steel, both of great force, 85
Prepar’d for better, or for worse. 
His death-charg’d pistols he did fit well,
Drawn out from life-preserving vittle. 
These being prim’d, with force he labour’d
To free’s sword from retentive scabbard 90
And, after many a painful pluck,
From rusty durance he bail’d tuck. 
Then shook himself, to see that prowess
In scabbard of his arms sat loose;
And, rais’d upon his desp’rate foot, 95
On stirrup-side he gaz’d about,
Portending blood, like blazing star,
The beacon of approaching war. 
Ralpho rode on with no less speed
Than Hugo in the forest did; 100
But far more in returning made;
For now the foe he had survey’d,
Rang’d as to him they did appear,
With van, main battle, wings, and rear. 
I’ the head of all this warlike rabble, 105
Crowdero march’d, expert and able. 
Instead of trumpet and of drum,
That makes the warrior’s stomach come,
Whose noise whets valour sharp, like beer
By thunder turn’d to vinegar, 110
(For if a trumpet sound, or drum beat,
Who has not a month’s mind to combat?)
A squeaking engine he apply’d
Unto his neck, on north-east side,
Just where the hangman does dispose, 115
To special friends, the knot of noose: 
For ’tis great grace, when statesmen straight
Dispatch a friend, let others wait. 
His warped ear hung o’er the strings,
Which was but souse to chitterlings:  120