THERE was an ancient sage philosopher, That had read ALEXANDER Ross over, And swore the world, as he cou'd prove, Was made of fighting and of love: Just so romances are; for what else 5 Is in them all, but love and battels? O' th' first of these we've no great matter To treat of, but a world o' th' latter; In which to do the injur'd right We mean, in what concerns just fight. 10 Certes our authors are to blame, For to make some well-sounding name A pattern fit for modern Knights To copy out in frays and fights; Like those that a whole street do raze 15 To build a palace in the place. They never care how many others They kill, without regard of mothers, Or wives, or children, so they can Make up some fierce, dead-doing man, 20 Compos'd of many ingredient valors, Just like the manhood of nine taylors. So a Wild Tartar, when he spies A man that's handsome, valiant, wise, If he can kill him, thinks t' inherit 25 His wit, his beauty, and his spirit As if just so much he enjoy'd As in another is destroy'd For when a giant's slain in fight, And mow'd o'erthwart, or cleft down right, 30 It is a heavy case, no doubt; A man should have his brains beat out Because he's tall, and has large bones; As men kill beavers for their stones. But as for our part, we shall tell 35 The naked truth of what befel; And as an equal friend to both The Knight and Bear, but more to troth, With neither faction shall take part, But give to each his due desert; 40 And never coin a formal lie on't, To make the Knight o'ercome the giant. This b'ing profest, we've hopes enough, And now go on where we left off.