What Myrmidon, or hard Dolopian, What savage-minded rude Cyclopian, But such a sweet pathetic Paphian Would force to laughter? Ho, Amphitrion, Thou art no cuckold. What, though Jove dallièd, During thy wars, in fair Alcmena's bed, Yet Hercules, true born, that imbecility Of corrupt nature, all apparently 30 Appears in him. O foul indignity! I heard him vow himself a slave to Omphale, Puling "Aye me!" O valour's obloquy! He that the inmost nooks of hell did know, Whose ne'er-crazed[546] prowess all did overthrow, Lies streaking[547] brawny limbs in weak'ning bed; Perfumed, smooth-kemb'd, new glazed, fair surphulèd. O that the boundless power of the soul Should be subjected to such base control! Big-limb'd Alcides, doff thy honour's crown, 40 Go spin, huge slave, lest Omphale should frown. By my best hopes, I blush with grief and shame To broach the peasant baseness of our name. O, now my ruder hand begins to quake, To think what lofty cedars I must shake; But if the canker fret, the barks of oaks, Like humbler shrubs, shall equal bear the strokes Of my respectless rude satiric hand. Unless the Destin's adamantine band Should tie my teeth, I cannot choose, but bite, 50 To view Mavortius metamorphos'd quite, To puling sighs, and into "Aye me's" state, With voice distinct, all fine articulate, Lisping, "Fair saint, my woe compassionate; By heaven! thine eye is my soul-guiding fate." The god of wounds had wont on Cyprian couch To streak himself, and with incensing touch To faint his force, only when wrath had end; But now, 'mong furious garboils,[548] he doth spend His feebled valour, in tilt and tourneying, 60 With wet turn'd kisses, melting dallying. A pox upon't that Bacchis'[549] name should be The watchword given to the soldiery! Go, troop to field, mount thy obscurèd fame, Cry out St. George, invoke thy mistress' name; Thy mistress and St. George, alarum cry! Weak force, weak aid, that sprouts from luxury! Thou tedious[550] workmanship of lust-stung Jove, Down from thy skies, enjoy our females' love: Some fifty more Beotian girls will sue 70 To have thy love, so that thy back be true. O, now me thinks I hear swart Martius cry, Swooping[551] along in wars' feign'd maskery; By Lais' starry front he'll forthwith dye In clutter'd[552] blood, his mistress' livery; Her fancy's colours waves upon his head. O, well-fenced Albion, mainly manly sped, When those that are soldadoes[553] in thy state Do bear the badge of base, effeminate, Even on their plumy crests; brutes sensual, 80 Having no spark of intellectual! Alack! what hope, when some rank nasty wench Is subject of their vows and confidence? Publius hates vainly to idolatrise[554] And laughs that Papists honour images;