And where a watch, for half the worth,
May be redeem’d; or stolen plate
Restor’d at conscionable rate.
Beside all this, he serv’d his master
In quality of poetaster;
And rhymes appropriate could make
To ev’ry month i’ th’ almanac;
What terms begin and end could tell,
With their returns, in doggerel:
When the Exchequer opes and shuts,
And sow-gelder with safety cuts;
When men may eat and drink their fill,
And when be temp’rate if they will;
When use, and when abstain from vice,
Figs, grapes, phlebotomy, and spice.
And as in prison mean rogues beat
Hemp for the service of the great,
So Whachum beats his dirty brains,
T’ advance his master’s fame and gains,
And like the devil’s oracles,
Put into dogg’rel rhymes his spells,
Which, over ev’ry month’s blank page
I’ th’ almanac, strange bilks presage.
He would an elegy compose
On maggots squeez’d out of his nose:
In lyric numbers write an ode on
His mistress, eating a black-pudding;
And when imprison’d air escap’d her,
It puft him with poetic rapture.
His sonnets charm’d th’ attentive crowd,
By wide-mouth’d mortal troll’d aloud,
That, circl’d with his long-ear’d guests,
Like Orpheus look’d among the beasts.
A carman’s horse could not pass by,
But stood ty’d up to poetry:
No porter’s burden pass’d along,
But serv’d for burden to his song:
Each window like a pill’ry appears,
With heads thrust through, nail’d by the ears:
All trades run in as to the sight
Of monsters, or their dear delight
The gallows-tree, when cutting purse
Breeds bus’ness for heroic verse,
Which none does hear, but would have hung
T’ have been the theme of such a song.
Those two together long had liv’d,
In mansion prudently contriv’d,
Where neither tree nor house could bar
The free detection of a star
And nigh an ancient obelisk
Was rais’d by him, found out by Fisk,114
On which was a written, not in words,
But hieroglyphic mute of birds,
Many rare pithy saws concerning
The worth of astrologic learning.
From top of this there hung a rope,
To which he fasten’d telescope:
The spectacles with which the stars
He reads in smallest characters.
It happen’d as a boy, one night,
Did fly his tassel of a kite,
The strangest long-wing’d hawk that flies,
That, like a bird of Paradise,
Or herald’s martlet, has no legs,
Nor hatches young ones, nor lays eggs;
His train was six yards long, milk-white,
At th’ end of which there hung a light,
Inclos’d in lantern, made of paper,
That far off like a star did appear:
This Sidrophel by chance espy’d,
And with amazement staring wide,
Bless us! quoth he, what dreadful wonder
Is that appears in heaven yonder?
A comet, and without a beard!
Or star that ne’er before appear’d?
I’m certain ’tis not in the scrowl
Of all those beasts, and fish, and fowl,
With which, like Indian plantations,
The learned stock the constellations;
Nor those that draw for signs have been
To th’ houses where the planets inn.
It must be supernatural,
Unless it be that cannon-ball115
That, shot i’ th’ air point-blank upright,
Was borne to that prodigious height,
That, learn’d philosophers maintain.
It ne’er came backwards down again,
But in the airy region yet
Hangs like the body of Mahomet:
For if it be above the shade
That by the earth’s round bulk is made,
’Tis probable it may from far
Appear no bullet, but a star.
This said, he to his engine flew,
Plac’d near at hand, in open view,
And rais’d it till it levell’d right
Against the glow-worm tail of kite;
Then peeping through, Bless us! (quoth he)
It is a planet, now, I see;
And, if I err not, by his proper
Figure, that’s like tobacco-stopper,
It should be Saturn. Yes, ’tis clear
’Tis Saturn; but what makes him there?
He’s got between the dragon’s tail
And farther leg behind o’ th’ whale.
Pray heav’n avert the fatal omen,
For ’tis a prodigy not common;
And can no less than the world’s end,
Or Nature’s funeral, portend.
With that he fell again to pry
Thro’ perspective more wistfully,
When by mischance the fatal string,
That kept the tow’ring fowl on wing,
Breaking, down fell the star. Well shot,
Quoth Whachum, who right wisely thought
H’ had levell’d at a star, and hit it:
But Sidrophel, more subtle-witted,
Cry’d out, What horrible and fearful
Portent is this, to see a star fall?
It threatens nature, and the doom
Will not be long before it come!
When stars do fall, ’tis plain enough,
The day of judgment’s not far off;
As lately ’twas reveal’d to Sedgwick,116
And some of us find out by magic.
Then since the time we have to live
In this world’s shorten’d, let us strive
To make our best advantage of it,
And pay our losses with our profit.
This feat fell out not long before
The Knight, upon the forenam’d score,
In quest of Sidrophel advancing
Was now in prospect of the mansion
Whom he discov’ring, turn’d his glass,
And found far off, ’twas Hudibras.
Whachum, (quoth he), look yonder, some
To try or use our art are come:
The one’s the learned Knight: seek out,
And pump ’em what they come about.
Whachum advanc’d, with all submiss’ness,
T’ accost ’em, but much more their bus’ness:
He held a stirrup, while the Knight
From leathern bare-bones did alight;
And taking from his hand the bridle,
Approach’d the dark Squire to unriddle.
He gave him first the time o’ th’ day,
And welcom’d him, as he might say:
He ask’d him whence he came, and whither
Their bus’ness lay? Quoth Ralpho, Hither.
Did you not lose? Quoth Ralpho, Nay,
Quoth Whachum, Sir, I meant your way!
Your Knight—Quoth Ralpho, Is a lover,
And pains intolerable doth suffer:
For lovers’ hearts are not their own hearts,
Nor lights, nor lungs, and so forth downwards.
What time, (quoth Whachum), Sir?—Too long;
Three years it off and on has hung.—
Quoth he, I meant what time o’ th’ day ’tis—
Quoth Ralpho, Between seven and eight ’tis.—
Why then (quoth Whachum), my small art
Tells me, the dame has a hard heart,
Or great estate.—Quoth Ralph, A jointure,
Which makes him have so hot a mind t’ her.
Meanwhile the Knight was making water,
Before he fell upon the matter,
Which having done, the Wizard steps in,
To give him suitable reception;
But kept his bus’ness at a bay,
Till Whachum put him in the way;
Who having now, by Ralpho’s light,
Expounded th’ errand of the Knight,
And what he came to know, drew near,
To whisper in the conj’rer’s ear,
Which he prevented thus: What was’t,
Quoth he, that I was saying last,
Before these gentlemen arriv’d?
Quoth Whachum, Venus you retriev’d,
In opposition with Mars,
And no benign and friendly stars
T’ allay the effect.—Quoth Wizard, So!
In Virgo? Ha!—Quoth Whachum, No.
Has Saturn nothing to do in it?
One-tenth of ’s circle to
