And setting conquering foot upon 955
His trunk, thus spoke:  What desp’rate frenzy
Made thee (thou whelp of Sin!) to fancy
Thyself, and all that coward rabble,
T’ encounter us in battle able? 
How durst th’, I say, oppose thy curship 960
’Gainst arms, authority, and worship? 
And Hudibras or me provoke,
Though all thy limbs, were heart of oke,
And th’ other half of thee as good
To bear out blows, as that of wood? 965
Cou’d not the whipping-post prevail
With all its rhet’ric, nor the jail,
To keep from flaying scourge thy skin,
And ankle free from iron gin? 
Which now thou shalt —­ But first our care 970
Must see how Hudibras doth fare. 
This said, he gently rais’d the Knight,
And set him on his bum upright. 
To rouse him from lethargic dump,
He tweak’d his nose; with gentle thump 975
Knock’d on his breast, as if ’t had been
To raise the spirits lodg’d within. 
They, waken’d with the noise, did fly
From inward room to window eye,
And gently op’ning lid, the casement, 980
Look’d 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; 985
As high, victorious, and great,
As e’er fought for the Churches yet,
If you will give yourself but leave
To make out what y’ already have;
That’s victory.  The foe, for dread 990
Of your nine-worthiness, is fled: 
All, save Crowdero, for whose sake
You did th’ espous’d Cause undertake;
And he lies pris’ner at your feet,
To be dispos’d as you think meet; 995
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, 1000
Won in the service of the Churches;
And by your doom must be allow’d
To be, or be no more, a crowd. 
For though success did not confer
Just title on the conqueror; 1005
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 1010
To th’ creature, though usurp’d by might,
The property is in the Saint,
From whom th’ injuriously detain ’t;
Of him they hold their luxuries,
Their dogs, their horses, whores, and dice, 1015
Their riots, revels, masks, delights,
Pimps, buffoons, fiddlers, parasites;
All which the Saints have title to,
And ought t’ enjoy, if th’ had their due.