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, 225 With some whom they have taught that cunning. The furthest way about t' o'ercome, In the end does prove the nearest home. By laws of learned duellists, They that are bruis'd with wood or fists, 230 And think one beating may for once Suffice, are cowards and pultroons: But if they dare engage t' a second, They're stout and gallant fellows reckon'd.