Is to the middle-leg in prison;
In circle magical conflu'd,
With walls of subtile air and wind, 1145
Which none are able to break thorough,
Until they're freed by head of borough.
Thither arriv'd, th' advent'rous Knight
And bold Squire from their steeds alight
At th' outward wall, near which there stands 1150
A bastile, built to imprison hands;
By strange enchantment made to fetter
The lesser parts and free the greater;
For though the body may creep through,
The hands in grate are fast enough: 1155
And when a circle 'bout the wrist
Is made by beadle exorcist,
The body feels the spur and switch,
As if 'twere ridden post by witch
At twenty miles an hour pace, 1160
And yet ne'er stirs out of the place.
On top of this there is a spire,
On which Sir Knight first bids the Squire
The fiddle and its spoils, the case,
In manner of a trophee place. 1165
That done, they ope the trap-door gate,
And let CROWDERO down thereat;
CROWDERO making doleful face,
Like hermit poor in pensive place.
To dungeon they the wretch commit, 1170
And the survivor of his feet
But th' other, that had broke the peace