But what could fingle valour do,

Against so numerous a foe?

70

Yet much he did, indeed too much

To be believ'd, where th' odds were fuch;
But one against a multitude,

Is more than mortal can make good :

For while one party he oppos'd,
His rear was fuddenly inclos'd,
And no room left him for retreat,
Or fight, against a foe fo great.

For now the Mastives, charging home,

To blows and handy-gripes were come ;

80

While manfully himself he bore,

And, fetting his right foot before,
He rais'd himself to fhew how tall

85

His perfon was above them all.
This equal fhame and envy stirr'd
In th' enemy, that one should beard
So many warriors, and fo ftout,

As he had done, and stav'd it out,
Difdaining to lay down his arms,
And yield on honourable terms.
Enraged thus, fome in the rear

Attack'd him, and fome every where,
Till down he fell; yet falling fought,
And, being down, ftill laid about ;
As Widdrington, in doleful dumps,
Is faid to fight upon his stumps.

But all, alas! had been in vain,
And he inevitably slain,

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95

Or trip it o'er the water quicker

Than witches, when their ftaves they liquor,
As fome report) was got among
The foremost of the martial throng;
There pitying the vanquish'd Bear,
She call'd to Cerdon, who stood near,
Viewing the bloody fight; to whom,

Shall we (quoth she) stand still bum-drum,
And fee ftout Bruin, all alone,

By numbers bafely overthrown?

Such feats already he 'as atchiev'd,

In ftory not to be believ'd,

And 'twould to us be fhame enough,

10%

110

115

Not to attempt to fetch him off.

I would

Ver. 102.] As fhafts which long-field Parthians fboot. Thus it stands in the two first editions of 1663, and, I believe, in all the other editions to this time. Mr. Warburton is of opinion, that long-filed would be more proper; as the Parthians were ranged in long files, a difpofition proper for their manner of fighting, which was by sudden retreats and fudden charges. Mr. Smith, of Harleston, in Norfolk, thinks that the following alteration of the line would be an improve. ment;

As long-field fhafts, which Parthians shoot.

i

I would (quoth he) venture a limb
To fecond thee, and rescue him
But then we must about it ftraight,
Or else our aid will come too late ;
Quarter he fcorns, he is fo ftout,
And therefore cannot long hold out.

120

Meanwhile they' approach'd the place where Bruin

Was now engag'd to mortal ruin ;

The conquering foe they foon affail'd,
First Trulia ftav'd, and Cerdon tail'd,

Until their Maftives loos'd their hold:

135

And yet, alas! do what they could,
The worsted Bear came off with store
Of bloody wounds, but all before:

For as Achilles, dipt in pond,
Was anabaptiz'd free from wound,
Made proof against dead-doing fteel

346

Is half the coin) in battle par'd

Clofe to his head, fo Bruin far'd;

150

But tugg'd and pull'd on th' other fide,
Like fcrivener newly crucify'd:

Or like the late-corrected leathern
Ears of the circumcifed brethren.

But gentle Trulla into th' ring

155

He wore in 's nose convey'd a string,

With which the march'd before, and led

The warrior to a graffy bed,

As authors write, in a cool fhade,

Which eglantine and rofes made;
Close by a foftly murmuring stream,
Where lovers us'd to loll and dream:
There leaving him to his repose,
Secured from pursuit of foes,
And wanting nothing but a fong,
And a well-tun'd theorbo hung
Upon a bough, to ease the pain

His tugg'd ears fuffer'd, with a strain -
They both drew up, to march in quest
Of his great leader and the reft.

For Orfin (who was more renown'd
For ftout maintaining of his ground,
In ftanding fight, than for purfuit,
As being not fo quick of foot)
Was not long able to keep pace
With others that purfued the chace,
But found himself left far behind,
Both out of heart and out of wind;

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165

170

175

Griev'd

Griev'd to behold his Bear pursued

So bafely by a multitude,

180

And like to fall, not by the prowess,

But numbers, of his coward foes.

He rag'd, and kept as heavy a coil as
Stout Hercules for lofs of Hylas;
Forcing the vallies to repeat

The accents of his fad regret:

He beat his breast, and tore his hair,
For lofs of his dear crony Bear,
That Echo, from the hollow ground,
His doleful wailings did refound
More wiftfully, by many times,
Than in small poets fplay-foot rhymes,
That make her, in their ruthful stories,
To answer to int❜rogatories,

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190

And most unconscionably depofe

195

To things of which the nothing knows;
And when she has faid all the can fay,

'Tis wrested to the lover's fancy.

Quoth he, O whither, wicked Bruin,
Art thou fled? to my-Echo, Ruin.

200

I thought thou 'adft scorn'd to budge a step
For fear. Quoth Echo, Marry guep.

Am

Ver. 189, 190.] This passage is beautiful, not only as it is a moving lamentation, and evidences our Poet to be master of the pathetic as well as the fublime ftyle, but alfo as it comprehends a fine satire upon that false kind of wit of making an echo talk fenfibly, and give rational anfwers.