Of Booker’s, Lilly’s, Sarah Jimmers’,
And blank-schemes t’ discover nimmers;
A moon-dial, with Napier’s bones,
And several constellation stones,
Engrav’d in planetary hours,
That over mortals had strange powers
To make ’em thrive in law or trade,
And stab or poison to evade;
In wit or wisdom to improve,
And be victorious in love.
Whachum had neither cross nor pile;
His plunder was not worth the while;
All which the conqu’ror did discompt,
To pay for curing of his rump.
But Sidrophel, as full of tricks
As Rota-men of politics,
Straight cast about to over-reach
Th’ unwary conqu’ror with a fetch,
And make him clad (at least) to quit
His victory, and fly the pit,
Before the secular prince of darkness135
Arriv’d to seize upon his carcass:
And as a fox with hot pursuit
Chas’d thro’ a warren, casts about
To save his credit, and among
Dead vermin on a gallows hung,
And while the dogs run underneath,
Escap’d (by counterfeiting death)
Not out of cunning, but a train
Of atoms jostling in his brain,
As learn’d philosophers give out,
So Sidrophello cast about,
And fell to ’s wonted trade again,
To feign himself in earnest slain:
First stretch’d out one leg, than another,
And seeming in his breath to smother
A broken sigh, quoth he, Where am I,
Alive or dead? or which way came I,
Through so immense a space so soon
But now I thought myself i’ th’ moon;
And that a monster with huge whiskers,
More formidable than a Switzer’s,
My body through and through had drill’d,
And Whachum by my side had kill’d;
Had cross-examin’d both our hose,
And plunder’d all we had to lose.
Look, there he is: I see him now,
And feel the place I am run through:
And there lies Whachum by my side
Stone dead, and in his own blood dy’d.
Oh! oh! with that he fetch’d a groan,
And fell again into a swoon;
Shut both his eyes, and stopp’d his breath,
And to the life out-acted death;
That Hudibras, to all appearing,
Believ’d him to be dead as herring.
He held it now no longer safe
To tarry the return of Ralph,
But rather leave him in the lurch:
Thought he, he has abus’d our church,
Refus’d to give himself one firk
To carry on the public work;
Despis’d our synod-men like dirt,
And made their discipline his sport;
Divulg’d the secrets of their classes,
And their conventions prov’d high places;
Disparag’d their tithe-pigs as Pagan,
And set at nought their cheese and bacon;
Rail’d at their Covenant, and jeer’d
Their rev’rend parsons to my beard:
For all which scandals, to be quit
At once, this juncture falls out fit,
I’ll make him henceforth to beware,
And tempt my fury, if he dare,
He must at least hold up his hand,
By twelve freeholders to be scann’d;
Who, by their skill in palmistry,
Will quickly read his destiny;
And make him glad to read his lesson,
Or take a turn for ’t at the session;
Unless his light and gifts prove truer
Then ever yet they did, I’m sure;
For if he ’scape with whipping now,
’Tis more than he can hope to do;
And that will disengage my conscience
Of th’ obligation in his own sense.
I’ll make him now by force abide
What he by gentle means deny’d,
To give my honour satisfaction,
And right the brethren in the action.
This being resolv’d, with equal speed
And conduct he approach’d his steed,
And with activity unwont,
Assay’d the lofty beast to mount;
Which once achiev’d, he spurr’d his palfrey,
To get from th’ enemy and Ralph free:
Left dangers, fears, and foes behind,
And beat, at least three lengths, the wind.
An Heroical Epistle of Hudibras to Sidrophel
Ecce iterum Crispinus.
Well! Sidrophel, though ’tis in vain
To tamper with your crazy brain,
Without trepanning of your skull
As often as the moon’s at full,
’Tis not amiss, ere y’ are giv’n o’er,
To try one desp’rate med’cine more:
For where your case can be no worse,
The desperat’st is the wisest course.
Is’t possible that you, whose ears
Are of the tribe of Issachar’s,
And might (with equal reason) either
For merit, or extent of leather,
With William Pryn’s, before they were
Retrench’d and crucify’d, compare,
Shou’d yet be deaf against a noise
So roaring as the public voice?
That speaks your virtues free, and loud,
And openly, in ev’ry crowd,
As loud as one that sings his part
T’ a wheel-barrow or turnip cart,
Or your new nick-nam’d old invention
To cry green hastings with an engine
(As if the vehemence had stunn’d,
And turn your drum-heads with the sound;)
And ’cause your folly’s now no news,
But overgrown, and out of use,
Persuade yourself there’s no such matter,
But that ’tis vanish’d out of nature;
When folly, as it grows in years,
The more extravagant appears;
For who but you could be possest
With so much ignorance, and beast,
That neither all mens’ scorn and hate,
Nor being laugh’d and pointed at,
Nor bray’d so often in a mortar,
Can teach you wholesome sense and nurture;
But (like a reprobate) what course
Soever’s us’d, grow worse and worse?
Can no transfusion of the blood,
That makes fools cattle, do you good?
Nor putting pigs t’ a bitch to nurse,
To turn ’em into mongrel-curs,
Put you into a way, at least,
To make yourself a better beast?
Can all your critical intrigues
Of trying sound from rotten eggs;
Your several new-found remedies
Of curing wounds and scabs in trees;
Your arts of flexing them for claps,
And purging their infected saps;
Recov’ring shankers, crystallines,
And nodes and botches in their rinds,
Have no effect to operate
Upon that duller block, your pate?
But still it must be lewdly bent
To tempt your own due punishment;
And, like your whimsy’d chariots, draw
The boys to course you without law;
As if the art you have so long
Profess’d, of making old dogs young,
In you had virtue to renew
Not only youth, but childhood too.
Can you, that understand all books,
By judging only with your looks,
Resolve all problems with your face,
As others do with B’s and A’s;
Unriddle all that mankind knows
With solid bending of your brows;
All arts and sciences advance,
With screwing of your countenance,
And, with a penetrating eye,
Into th’ abstrusest learning pry?
Know more of any trade b’ a hint,
Than those that have been bred up in’t;
And yet have no art, true or false,
To help your own bad naturals?
But still, the more you strive t’ appear,
Are found to be the wretcheder:
For fools are known by looking wise,
As men find woodcocks by their eyes.
Hence ’tis, that ’cause y’ have gain’d o’ th’ college
A quarter share (at most) of knowledge,
And brought in none, but spent repute,
Y’ assume a pow’r as absolute
To judge, and
