This said, they all engag’d to join
Their forces in the same design; 290
And forthwith put themselves in search
Of Hudibras upon their march. 
Where leave we awhile, to tell
What the victorious knight befel. 
For such, Crowdero being fast 295
In dungeon shut, we left him last. 
Triumphant laurels seem’d to grow
No where so green as on his brow;
Laden with which, as well as tir’d
With conquering toil, he now retir’d 300
Unto a neighb’ring castle by,
To rest his body, and apply
Fit med’cines to each glorious bruise
He got in fight, reds, blacks, and blues,
To mollify th’ uneasy pang 305
Of ev’ry honourable bang,
Which b’ing by skilful midwife drest,
He laid him down to take his rest. 
But all in vain.  H’ had got a hurt
O’ th’ inside, of a deadlier sort, 310
By Cupid made, who took his stand
Upon a Widow’s jointure land,
(For he, in all his am’rous battels,
No ’dvantage finds like goods and chattels,)
Drew home his bow, and, aiming right, 315
Let fly an arrow at the Knight: 
The shaft against a rib did glance,
And gall’d him in the purtenance. 
But time had somewhat ’swag’d his pain,
After he found his suit in vain. 320
For that proud dame, for whom his soul
Was burnt in’s belly like a coal,
(That belly which so oft did ake
And suffer griping for her sake,
Till purging comfits and ants-eggs 325
Had almost brought him off his legs,)
Us’d him so like a base rascallion,
That old Pyg —­ (what d’y’ call him) malion,
That cut his mistress out of stone,
Had not so hard a-hearted one. 330
She had a thousand jadish tricks,
Worse than a mule that flings and kicks;
’Mong which one cross-grain’d freak she had,
As insolent as strange and mad;
She could love none, but only such 335
As scorn’d and hated her as much. 
’Twas a strange riddle of a lady: 
Not love, if any lov’d her!  Hey dey! 
So cowards never use their might,
But against such as will not fight; 340
So some diseases have been found
Only to seize upon the sound. 
He that gets her by heart, must say her
The back way, like a witch’s prayer. 
Mean while the Knight had no small task 345
To compass what he durst not ask. 
He loves, but dares not make the motion;
Her ignorance is his devotion: 
Like caitiff vile, that, for misdeed,
Rides with his face to rump of steed, 350
Or rowing scull, he’s fain to love,
Look one way, and another move;
Or like a tumbler, that does play