(And that I shall do sure enough,) 810
Quarter thou canst not have, nor grace,
By law of arms, in such a case;
Both which I now do offer freely. 
I scorn (quoth she) thou coxcomb silly,
(Clapping her hand upon her breech, 815
To shew how much she priz’d his speech,)
Quarter or counsel from a foe
If thou can’st force me to it, do. 
But lest it should again be said,
When I have once more won thy head, 820
I took thee napping, unprepar’d,
Arm, and betake thee to thy guard.

This said, she to her tackle fell,
And on the Knight let fall a peal
Of blows so fierce, and press’d so home, 825
That he retir’d, and follow’d’s bum. 
Stand to’t (quoth she) or yield to mercy
It is not fighting arsie-versie
Shall serve thy turn. —­ This stirr’d his spleen
More than the danger he was in, 830
The blows he felt, or was to feel,
Although th’ already made him reel. 
Honour, despight; revenge and shame,
At once into his stomach came,
Which fir’d it so, he rais’d his arm 835
Above his head, and rain’d a storm
Of blows so terrible and thick,
As if he meant to hash her quick. 
But she upon her truncheon took them,
And by oblique diversion broke them, 840
Waiting an opportunity
To pay all back with usury;
Which long she fail’d not of; for now
The Knight with one dead-doing blow
Resolving to decide the fight, 845
And she, with quick and cunning slight,
Avoiding it, the force and weight
He charged upon it was so great,
As almost sway’d him to the ground. 
No sooner she th’ advantage found, 850
But in she flew; and seconding
With home-made thrust the heavy swing,
She laid him flat upon his side;
And mounting on his trunk a-stride,
Quoth she, I told thee what would come 855
Of all thy vapouring, base scum. 
Say, will the law of arms allow
I may have grace and quarter now? 
Or wilt thou rather break thy word,
And stain thine honour than thy sword? 860
A man of war to damn his soul,
In basely breaking his parole
And when, before the fight, th’ had’st vow’d
To give no quarter in cold blood
Now thou hast got me for a Tartar, 865
To make me ’gainst my will take quarter;
Why dost not put me to the sword,
But cowardly fly from thy word?

Quoth Hudibras, The day’s thine own: 
Thou and thy Stars have cast me down:  870
My laurels are transplanted now,
And flourish on thy conqu’ring brow: 
My loss of honour’s great enough,
Thou need’st not brand it with a scoff: 
Sarcasms may eclipse thine own,