Quoth he, The fortune of the war,
Which I am less afflicted for,
Than to be seen with beard and face,
By you in such a homely case. 
Quoth she, Those need not he asham’d 165
For being honorably maim’d,
If he that is in battle conquer’d,
Have any title to his own beard;
Though yours be sorely lugg’d and torn,
It does your visage more adorn 170
Than if ’twere prun’d, and starch’d, and lander’d,
And cut square by the Russian standard. 
A torn beard’s like a tatter’d ensign,
That’s bravest which there are most rents in. 
That petticoat about your shoulders 175
Does not so well become a souldier’s;
And I’m afraid they are worse handled
Although i’ th’ rear; your beard the van led;
And those uneasy bruises make
My heart for company to ake, 180
To see so worshipful a friend
I’ th’ pillory set, at the wrong end.

Quoth Hudibras, This thing call’d pain
Is (as the learned Stoicks maintain)
Not bad simpliciter, nor good, 185
But merely as ’tis understood. 
Sense is deceitful, and may feign,
As well in counterfeiting pain
As other gross phenomenas,
In which it oft mistakes the case. 190
But since the immortal intellect
(That’s free from error and defect,
Whose objects still persist the same)
Is free from outward bruise and maim,
Which nought external can expose 195
To gross material bangs or blows,
It follows, we can ne’er be sure,
Whether we pain or not endure;
And just so far are sore and griev’d,
As by the fancy is believ’d. 200
Some have been wounded with conceit,
And dy’d of mere opinion straight;
Others, tho’ wounded sore in reason,
Felt no contusion, nor discretion. 
A Saxon Duke did grow so fat, 205
That mice (as histories relate)
Eat grots and labyrinths to dwell in
His postick parts without his feeling: 
Then how is’t possible a kick
Should e’er reach that way to the quick? 210

Quoth she, I grant it is in vain. 
For one that’s basted to feel pain,
Because the pangs his bones endure
Contribute nothing to the cure: 
Yet honor hurt, is wont to rage 215
With pain no med’cine can asswage.

Quoth he, That honour’s very squeamish
That takes a basting for a blemish;
For what’s more hon’rable than scars,
Or skin to tatters rent in wars? 220
Some have been beaten till they know
What wood a cudgel’s of by th’ blow;
Some kick’d until they can feel whether
A shoe be Spanish or neat’s leather;
And yet have met, after long running,