ΓΙΓΑΝΤΟΜΑΧΙΑ. OR A Full, and True RELATION Of the Great and Bloody Fight, BETWEEN Three PAGAN KNIGHTS, AND A CHRISTIAN GIANT.  
LONDON, Printed for Richard Janeway, 1682.   

ΓΙΓΑΝΤΟΜΑΧΙΑ.  

OF Monsters fell, and wondrous Wights,  
Of towers Enchanted, bloody Fights,  
Of ERRAND Knaves, and ERRAND Knights  
I shall Compose my Ballad;  
How a huge Giant Fierce and Stout,  
Three Gentle KNIGHTS at once did Rout;  
Of which, if you the Truth do Doubt,  
The Records in my Wallet.   

Contrary to Romantic Rules,  
By Snatches sweetly Conned at Schools,  
Which always make the biggest Fools,  
Truth here takes part with Giant,  
For He the Knight's thick Skulls did Crack,  
He laid their Honours on the Back,  
And did their Ribs full rudely Thwack,  
To make their Purses Pliant.   

Thou great St. George, and Eglamore,  
Thou Pegasus, and Brigliadore,  
With all hard Names that Poets Roar,  
And for their Gods have taken,  
Merlin that made the Devil an Ass,  
Bladud-ap-creat-Rud-Hudibrass,  
That through the Air like Owl could pass,  
And Famous Friar Bacon;   

Assist, Assist my Mournful Song!  
Mingle your powerful Charms Among,  
With whispered Numbers, Dark and Strong,  
Whilst I the Lists do Enter!  
Hence all Profaneness! come not Near  
T' Invade the Sacred Rituals Here,  
Nor Wine, nor Money, nor good Cheer,  
To hinder mine Adventure.   

An Isle there is, that Albion Height,  
With Fruits and Flowers, around Bedight,  
Where Damsel fair, and gentle Knight,  
In every Shade are Playing,  
Where Nightingales each Tree Adorni,  
Spurring their Breasts with watchful Thorn  
Throughout the Year, where every Morn  
The Virgins go a Maying.   

A Town it has, which Fiends Enchant,  
Where Bridled Furies Roar and Rant,  
In olden times, height Troynovant,  
But now 'tis London Styled.  
Which By full many a devilish Spell  
And Brands and Balls fetched up from Hell,  
In its own Cinders Buried Fell,  
Of all its Glory Spoilt.   

But when Rome's Threadbare Plots were Spied,  
Her Charms unravelled, Knots Untied,  
'Twas gloriously Re-edified,  
Far Noblier than by th' Founder;  
Bright Turrets in th' Invaded Air,  
By Necromantic Art they Rear;  
With Stately Domes, and Houses Fair,  
Besprinkling all around Her.   

Here the Learned Sages every Year,  
In Venerable Furs appear,  
To choose a CHRISTIAN Officer,  
That may provide 'em Juries;  
This makes the PAGAN-TORIES Rave,  
Because their stakes they cannot Save;  
This makes ROGERO Strut and Brave,  
With all his Club of Furies.   

Some Renegadoes style you Can,  
Two Knights, but ne'er a Gentleman,  
Sometimes on the hot Scent they Ran  
A hunting for Promotion,  
And now and then for nimble Bounds,  
Or treading down their Neighbour's Grounds,  
Their Dog-lookt Friends amongst the Hounds,  
Are Dubbed with great Devotion.   

Such Recreant Knights, accoutred Fine  
With Sword and Mace, their Steps Incline  
To a large House, where Sin and Wine  
On equal Terms are Vended:  
Its name I know not, tho' 'tis Said  
And thought by most, 'twas the Popes-Head,  
For there like Friends they might be Sped,  
And carefully Attended.   

The first was of as strong a make,  
As ever Lance in just Brake,  
Or handled Sword for Lady's Sake,  
In Turkey or in Persy:  
From Top to Toe, from Head to Heel,  
He Cased himself in Burnished Steel;  
For Yard, a Spear he now does Feel.  
And Mail instead of Kersey.   

The next that carried on the Fight,  
With ponderous Mace of much Might,  
Was Hangman, Senator, and Knight,  
A strange Three-headed Monster;  
Whom Scandalising Whigs in Sport,  
When to their Brethren they Resort,  
That he's Allied to the French-Court,  
By's name's resemblance Construe.   

The S— f can't the L— s hid,  
The Knightly Spurs must needs be spied,  
Tho the Gold-Chain's about 'em tied,  
The better to obscure 'em;  
Th' Ass is an Ass, though Clothed he Be  
In the cast Robes of Majesty,  
Tho his long Ears Beasts cannot See,  
From trembling to secure 'um.   

The Third, a proper Man 'tis true,  
But that his Legs did stand askew,  
And both like Sampson's Foxes grew,  
One this way, that the other;  
Nought but their equal Ugliness,  
Their equal Shape, and equal Dress,  
Can make th' amazed Beholder Guess,  
That this to that was Brother.   

With him I would not enter Strife,  
Nor try a Fall to save my Life,  
For as a Bone upon a Knife,  
My Legs would split on his-'n:  
This may without a stretch be Said;  
Upon my Neck should he but Tread,  
He'd certainly cut off my Head,  
Before my Tail were risen.   

Enough of these, too much I fear;  
Now of the Giant you shall hear,  
That did with Blood their Chaps besmear,  
And eke their sides Bombasted;  
How on their Skulls he Blows did Rain,  
And kicked 'em down, and up Again;  
How with no little Grief and Pain  
They from his Clutches Hasted.   

His outward Parts were something small;  
'Twas th' inward Powers that Acted all;  
Yet though a Giant him we call,  
Let not the Tories blame us;  
For as close Flames more fiercely Roll,  
Imprisoned in a narrow Hole;  
So 'twas his brave Gygantick SOUL  
Made's Pygmee-Body Famous.   

All Tory Cloth, and Drapers too,  
With Fist, or else with Indigo,  
He's used to die both Black and Blue,  
The best in all the Nation;  
And lest his Customers be found,  
Some do Suppose he has been bound,  
By heavy Bag of Hundred Pound,  
To hid his Occupation.   

This Dragon-firking Hercules,  
This Cadmus, This— e'en what you please,  
That direful Monsters quelled with Ease,  
And Dragged from horrid Cavern;  
The matter few Distinguish can,  
Whether he freely thither Ran,  
Or was Enticed by a Trepan,  
And Wheedled to the Tavern.   

Who there Behind the Door should Lurk,  
But a false-misbelieving-Turk,  
Who thus began the Devils Work,  
With Glass fast clasped in Clutches.  
Ah! Sirrah! have we got you here?  
Come Pledge a Health to th' Grand-VISIER,  
Or else with speed my Scimitar,  
Shall make new room for Crutches.   

Sad was the Christian Champion's case;  
He had nor Battle-axe, nor Mace,  
Yet Stoutly he took Heart-a-grace,  
And thus Defies the Pagan:  
False Recreant Wretch as 'ere did Wield,  
An unbecoming Lance, or Shield!  
My head, as soon as Knees I'll Yield,  
To your great Bell, and Dragon.   

Jack adam's struts about the Rooms,  
And swears, and sinks, and cocks and fumes,  
That thus one Stubborn Whig presumes,  
On three Armed Knights to Venture;  
Sirrah you Dog! d'ye prate, d'ye prate?  
Mu Captives then capitulate?  
Dispatch; or else I'll break your pate,  
And Ramm ye to the Centre.   

No sooner Said, no sooner Done,  
The Fight was instantly Begun;  
A blow he Struck enough to Stun,  
The Stoutest Knight in London:  
Some favouring God, or powerful Charm,  
To save a Courteous Knight from harm,  
I'th' nick came underneath his arm,  
Or there he had been undone.   

The empty Sword slid glancing by;  
Not so our Champion, who must try,  
Bravely to Conquer, or to Die,  
By hand of miscreant Heathen;  
But since he saw the War begin,  
He won't for nothing sell his skin,  
But if his reach they come within,  
he'll give his Foes a breathing.   

His Fist he bends, and dings it right,  
At's Worship's Face with all his Might,  
Down on the floor my gentle Knight,  
All in a heap does tumble:  
As when one Mongrel you attack,  
The yelping Cur your steps will tract,  
And raise the Parish on your back,  
His Friends began to grumble.   

In our Relation to be brief,  
Sir Simon Suckegg was the chief,  
That brought his Brother Fool relief,  
Than all his Fellows madder;  
He by his quondam HONOURS Swore,  
By forked Crest the arms he bore,  
And by his Mistress, alias W—  
To turn him o'er the LADDER.   

But though his hands were thick, and long,  
His Weapon ponderous, and strong,  
And he with Mace laid on dingdong,  
Yet still our Champion tight-stood,  
And after many a crabbed Jowl,  
Putting aside his weighty Pole,  
He taketh him o'er the Jobbernole,  
And down he fetched poor Knighthood.   

In Triumph over them he goes,  
Thinking he had conquered all his Foes,  
And under his victorious Toes,  
He stamped their battered Faces;  
Sir Simon's Beauty went to Pot,  
That though in Love he had been hot,  
His Mistress soon restore would not,  
Her favours, and good Graces.   

Beat Death's Alarm upon the Drums!  
Beware Shanks! Beware Shanks! Sir Harry comes;  
He bitten for Anger both his Thumbs,  
And at our Champion yawned;  
He like Alcides did provide,  
To guard himself on either side,  
When Hydra's Coxcombs multiplied,  
And two for one were spawned.   

With Corpse erect, and Visage grim,  
One foot he plants on simple Sim.  
Who sadly growled under him;  
Sir Bobb supported t'other:  
With an undaunted Mien, and Air,  
His conquering Arms he high does Rear,  
And for the third Assault prepare,  
To drubb their Friend and Brother.   

So have I seen a sprightly Cat,  
That purring in a Corner sat,  
In Ambuscade for lusty Rat,  
Sworn Foe to Cheese and Bacon;  
When two young Mice that frisking out,  
From a low Port of their Redoubt,  
By Governors command to scout,  
Were in her Clutches taken.   

Their piercing Shrieks the Fort affright;  
Out Sallies Rat, prepared to fight,  
As fierce as any TORY Knight,  
Upon her madly falling;  
Puss in two Paws shuts captive Mice,  
To hinder rescue, or surprise;  
With th' other at her Foe does rife,  
And down she Cuffs him sprawling.   

Doughty Sir Hall, a tiptoe Stands,  
With mighty Falchion reared in hands,  
And Satisfaction demands,  
For both his Friends Mischances;  
He Winks, and then Pell-mell let's drive,  
Aiming his head in twain to rive;  
That was the gentlest Knight alive;  
But flatlong on't it glances.   

Our Champion's Head, and Brains ran round,  
Down he was sinking in a sound,  
But yet as soons he touched the ground,  
Up leapt he like Antaeus 
(a) Antaeus: a famous moorfield's wrestler, who the oftener he was foiled the more strength he had.   
The Turks arrears he paid him soon,  
Tho he for grace did Importune,  
And made him see more Stars at Noon,  
Than e'er did Galiaeus 
(b) Galilaeus an old Conjurer (kin to Gadbury) that saw the stars at noon with a spying glass.    

In Vain the Wretch for help does Bawl,  
On back, and sides, and face and all,  
With Knightly prowess he does fall,  
And many a trusty greeting;  
He laid on Load on empty Crown,  
Until with a most gracious frown,  
His honour too came Rattling down,  
To give his Friends a meeting.   

Stout Whig their Noses gently tweaks,  
Their Skulls, though thick, all over breaks,  
And his just Anger on 'em wreaks  
For their Affront Notorious:  
He rends their Lace, and Linen pure  
(Who can so sad a sight endure?)  
And Poynt-Crevats, and Garniture  
That made 'em look so glorious.   

Their empty Crowns rung jangling Peals,  
Their Foe Chimes backward, and reveals  
The Fire that their warm Ear conceals  
Whilst they're in woeful pickle:  
Had you but seen 'em how they Sat,  
Spoiled of their Cloak, and Band, and Hat,  
You would conclude they had been at  
A Bristol- Conventicle.   

Now on the Floor their Corpse he spreads,  
Now on their Neck in Triumph treads,  
Then disobliged their LOGGERHEADS,  
Jumbling them all together,  
And if they once but Cursed, or Frowned,  
He rolled 'em round, and round, and round,  
Trailing their  about the Ground  
They knew not how nor whether.   

Sometimes on their Fat Guts he jumps,  
Sometimes their Paunches rudely thumps,  
And on their Heads makes Egg-like bumps,  
Whilst their poor Pates were addled;  
Now he their Jaws accosts with hand,  
Now on his Leg prepared did stand,  
To give their Tails a REPRIMAND,  
And now their sides he swaddled.   

Still he let's Drive his furious Blows,  
Until at last, as most suppose,  
The reverent-Sirs affront his Nose,  
With PARACELSIAN Civet; 
(c) A T— d they did!   
So crafty REYNARD now and then,  
When outed by intruding men,  
Be-s— the cleanly Badgers Den,  
To make its Landlord leave it.   

The TORYS their banged sides bemoan,  
They sadly yelp O hone! O hone!  
And with full many a dolorous Groan,  
Hold up their Paws for pity.  
Sir Bobb and Hal did deeply yell,  
But who his direful Plaints can tell,  
That was, while it seemed good to Hell,  
A Burden to the City.   

Thirteen-Pence-Half-penny he'd bestow  
With generous Fist on Conquering Foe,  
If he'd be pleased to let him go  
But for one livelong Moment;  
But since some wiser are than some,  
Our Champion threatens with a Drum  
Beating before to kick 'em home;  
Although he never so meant.   

As soon as they had strength to rise,  
For Crick in Neck, in Back, in Thighs,  
They looked about to find their Eyes,  
Thinking he'd beat 'em all out;  
So have I seen a maimed Snail,  
When by rude Heels its Rampires fail,  
Dragging along its slimy Tail,  
From thence attempt to crawl out.   

The Christian had a Noble Soul,  
And when he saw 'em thus condole,  
He grants 'em Freedom on Parole,  
While Fame his Glory raises;  
This Tell-tale Goddess had a Spy  
That brought her word immediately;  
About the City she does fly,  
And Trumpets out his Praises.   

Of TORY Champions, fierce and stout,  
London and England all throughout,  
She the Achievements spreads about,  
And of their Valour Tattles;  
But with sly Malice chief she  
Does magnify their COURTESY,  
When they to odds must yield or flee,  
In such unequal Battles.   

For when, by unexpected Chance,  
One did against all Three advance,  
They yielded out of Complaisance,  
And took a Civil Drubbing.  
But since, although Cocksure, they fail,  
And Three to One could not prevail,  
This did the Hotspur Courage quail  
Of poor Heroick Robin.   

Fame's a damned Whig they fret and cry,  
(Screwing their Mouths up to their Eye)  
If e'er we meet her she shall die;  
Kiss and tell! Out upon her!  
Fortune we finds a fickle Whore,  
We'll never trust the Gipsy more:  
(Thus like a Bittern they did roar)  
Our Honour! O our Honour!   

Their Friends advise 'em to Compound.  
If lusty Dyer may be found,  
And get him unto silence bound,  
Although he hard to win is;  
With sense profound they gravely say,  
'Twould be the best and safest way,  
To lock his Lips with Silver Kay,  
Or gag his Mouth with Guinies.   

'Twas spoke, and instantly 'twas done;  
Whilst they their Pockets rummage, one  
To every Coffeehouse does run,  
To find Victorious DYER;  
They reasoned on the point, and he  
Because they're Friends won't Disagree,  
But out of mere CIVILITY  
He grants 'em their Desire.   

Else how is he so changed become?  
He answers nothing now but Mum!  
To all Enquirers deaf and dumb,  
Strangely retired o'th' sudden.  
Ask him about it, ask again,  
Tho of his Silence you complain,  
Yet still you'll ask, and ask in vain;  
For, not a word o'th' Pudding.   

There's your true Spaniels for you, Sirs;  
Kick 'em, they'll love you ne'er the worse,  
But, like Good-Christian-Honest-Curs,  
Or Women of Moscovy,  
The longer Cudgel one provides,  
To exercise their Back and Sides,  
The longer their  abides,  
And they'll the longer love ye.   

But, Tories, take a Friend's Advice,  
Well-willer to your NOSE and EYES,  
That never liked this Enterprise,  
To Whig-land so delighting:  
Drink for the DUKE while you can stand,  
Chase all fanatics round the Land,  
With Glasses ready charged in Hand;  
But pray take heed of Fight.   
FINIS.