Hudibras

To the Reader

Poeta nascitur non fit,1 is a sentence of as great truth as antiquity; it being most certain, that all the acquired learning imaginable is insufficient to complete a poet, without a natural genius and propensity to so noble and sublime an art. And we may, without offence, observe, that many very learned men, who have been ambitious to be thought poets, have only rendered themselves obnoxious to that satyrical inspiration our Author wittily invokes:

Which made them, though it were in spite
Of nature and their stars, to write.

On the one side some who have had very little human learning, but were endued with a large share of natural wit and parts, have become the most celebrated (Shakespeare, D’Avenant, etc.) poets of the age they lived in. But, as these last are, Rarae aves in terris, so, when the muses have not disdained the assistances of other arts and sciences, we are then blessed with those lasting monuments of wit and learning, which may justly claim a kind of eternity upon earth. And our author, had his modesty permitted him, might, with Horace, have said,

Exegi monumentum aere perennius:2

Or, with Ovid,

Jamque opus exegi, quod nec Jovis ira, nec ignis,
Nec poterit ferrum, nec edax abolere vetustas.3

The Author of this celebrated Poem was of this his last composition: for although he had not the happiness of an academical education, as some affirm, if may be perceived, throughout his whole Poem, that he had read much, and was very well accomplished in the most useful parts of human learning.

Rapin (in his reflections) speaking of the necessary qualities belonging to a poet, tells us, he must have a genius extraordinary; great natural gifts; a wit just, fruitful, piercing, solid, and universal; an understanding clear and distinct; an imagination neat and pleasant; an elevation of soul, that depends not only on art or study, but is purely the gift of heaven, which must be sustained by a lively sense and vivacity; judgment to consider wisely of things, and vivacity for the beautiful expression of them, etc.

Now, how justly this character is due to our Author, we leave to the impartial reader, and those of nicer judgment, who had the happiness to be more intimately acquainted with him.

The reputation of this incomparable Poem is so thoroughly established in the world, that it would be superfluous, if not impertinent, to endeavour any panegyric upon it. King Charles II whom the judicious part of mankind will readily acknowledge to be a sovereign judge of wit, was so great an admirer of it, that he would often pleasantly quote it in his conversation. However, since most men have a curiosity to have some account of such anonymous authors, whose compositions have been eminent for wit or learning, we have, for their information, subjoined a short Life of the Author.

The Author’s Life

Samuel Butler, the Author of this excellent Poem, was born in the Parish of Strensham, in the county of Worcester, and baptized there the 13th of Feb. 1612. His father, who was of the same name, was an honest country farmer, who had some small estate of his own, but rented a much greater of the Lord of the Manor where he lived. However, perceiving in this son an early inclination to learning, he made a shift to have him educated in the free-school at Worcester, under Mr. Henry Bright; where having passed the usual time, and being become an excellent school-scholar, he went for some little time to Cambridge, but was never matriculated into that University, his father’s abilities not being sufficient to be at the charge of an academical education; so that our Author returned soon into his native county, and became clerk to one Mr. Jefferys, of Earl’s-Croom, an eminent Justice of the Peace for that County, with whom he lived some years, in an easy and no contemptible service. Here by the indulgence of a kind master, he had sufficient leisure to apply himself to whatever learning his inclinations led him, which were chiefly history and poetry; to which, for his diversion, he joined music and painting; and I have seen some pictures, said to be of his drawing, which remained in that family; which I mention not for the excellency of them, but to satisfy the reader of his early inclinations to that noble art; for which also he was afterwards entirely beloved by Mr. Samuel Cooper, one of the most eminent painters of his time.

He was after this recommended to that great encourager of learning, Elizabeth Countess of Kent, where he had not only the opportunity to consult all manner of learned books, but to converse also with that living library of learning, the great Mr. Selden.

Our Author lived some time also with Sir Samuel Luke, who was of an ancient family in Bedfordshire but, to his dishonour, an eminent commander under the usurper Oliver Cromwell: and then it was, as I am informed, he composed this loyal Poem. For, though fate, more than choice, seems to have placed him in the service of a Knight so notorious, both in his person and politics, yet, by the rule of contraries, one may observe throughout his whole Poem, that he was most orthodox, both in his religion and loyalty. And I am the more induced to believe he wrote it about that time, because he had then the opportunity to converse with those living characters of rebellion, nonsense, and hypocrisy, which he so livelily and pathetically exposes throughout the whole work.

After the restoration of King Charles II those who were at the helm, minding money more than merit, our Author found that verse in Juvenal to be exactly verified in himself:

Haud facile emergunt, quorum virtutibus obstat
Res angusta domi:4

And being endued with that innate modesty, which rarely finds promotion in princes’ courts. He became Secretary to Richard Earl of Carbury, Lord President of the Principality of Wales, who made him Steward of Ludlow-Castle, when the Court there was revived. About this time he married one Mrs. Herbert, a gentlewoman of a very good family, but no widow, as the Oxford Antiquary has reported; she had a competent fortune, but it was most of it unfortunately lost, by being put out on ill securities, so that it was of little advantage to him. He is reported by the Antiquary to have been Secretary to his Grace George Duke of Buckingham, when he was Chancellor to the University of Cambridge; but whether that be true or no, it is certain, the Duke had a great kindness for him, and was often a benefactor to him. But no man was a more generous friend to him, than that Mecaenas of all learned and witty men, Charles Lord Buckhurst, the late Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, who, being himself an excellent poet, knew how to set a just value upon the ingenious performances of others, and has often taken care privately to relieve and supply the necessities of those, whose modesty would endeavour to conceal them; of which our author was a signal instance, as several others have been, who are now living. In fine the integrity of his life, the acuteness of his wit, and easiness of his conversation, had rendered him most acceptable to all men; yet he prudently avoided a multiplicity of acquaintance, and wisely chose such only whom his discerning judgment could distinguish (as Mr. Cowley expresseth it)

From the great vulgar or the small.

And having thus lived to a good old age, admired by all, though personally known to few, he departed this life in the year 1680, and was buried at the charge of his good friend Mr. Longuevil, of the Temple, in the yard belonging to the church of St. Paul’s Covent-garden, at the west-end of the said yard, on the north side, under the wall of the said church, and under that wall which parts the yard from the common highway. And since he has no monument yet set up for him, give me leave to borrow his epitaph from that of Michael Drayton, the poet, as the author of Mr. Cowley’s has partly done before me:

And though no monument can claim
To be the treasurer of thy name;
This work, which ne’er will die, shall be
An everlasting monument to thee.

Part I

When civil dudgeon5 first grew high,
And men fell out they knew not why;
When hard words, jealousies, and fears,
Set folks together by the ears,
And made them fight, like mad or drunk,
For dame Religion as for punk;
Whose honesty they all durst swear for,
Though not a man of them knew wherefore;
When gospel-trumpeter, surrounded
With long-ear’d rout, to battle sounded,
And pulpit, drum ecclesiastick,
Was beat with fist, instead of a stick;
Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling,
And out he rode a colonelling.
A wight he was, whose very sight would
Entitle him Mirror of Knighthood;
That never bent his stubborn knee
To any thing but chivalry;
Nor put up blow, but that which laid
Right worshipful on shoulder-blade:
Chief of domestic knights and errant,
Either for cartel or for warrant;
Great on the bench, great in the saddle,
That could as well bind o’er, as swaddle:6
Mighty he was at both of these,
And styl’d of war, as well as peace.
(So some rats, of amphibious nature,
Are either for the land or water.)
But here our authors make a doubt
Whether he were more wise, or stout.
Some hold the one, and some the other;
But howsoe’er they make a pother,
The diff’rence was so small, his brain
Outweigh’d his rage but half a grain;
Which made some take him for a tool,
That knaves do work with, call’d a fool.
And offer to lay wagers that
As Montaigne, playing with his cat,7
Complains she thought him but an ass,
Much more she would Sir Hudibras;
(For that’s the name our valiant Knight
To all his challenges did write.)
But they’re mistaken very much;
’Tis plain enough he was no such.
We grant, although he had much wit,
H’ was very shy of using it;
As being loth to wear it out,
And therefore bore it not about;
Unless on holy-days, or so,
As men their best apparel do.
Beside, ’tis known he could speak Greek
As naturally as pigs squeak:
That Latin was no more difficile,
Than to a blackbird ’tis to whistle.
Being rich in both, he never scanted
His bounty unto such as wanted:
But much of either would afford
To many, that had not one word.
For Hebrew roots, although they’re found
To flourish most in barren ground,
He had such plenty, as suffic’d
To make some think him circumcis’d;8
And truly so, he was, perhaps,
Not as a proselyte, but for claps.

He was in logic a great critic,
Profoundly skill’d in analytic;9
He could distinguish, and divide
A hair ’twixt south, and south-west side;
On either which he would dispute,
Confute, change hands, and still confute.
He’d undertake to prove, by force
Of argument, a man’s no horse;
He’d prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl,
A calf an alderman, a goose a justice,
And rooks committee-men and trustees.
He’d run in debt by disputation,
And pay with ratiocination.
All this by syllogism, true
In mood and figure he would do.
For Rhetoric, he could not ope
His mouth, but out there flew a trope:
And when he happen’d to break off
I’ th’ middle of his speech, or cough,
H’ had hard words, ready to show why,
And tell what rules he did it by:
Else, when with greatest art he spoke,
You’d think he talk’d like other folk:
For all a rhetorician’s rules
Teach nothing but to name his tools.
But, when he pleas’d to show’t, his speech,
In loftiness of sound was rich;
A Babylonish dialect,10
Which learned pedants much affect.
It was a parti-colour’d dress
Of patch’d and pie-bald languages;
’Twas English cut on Greek and Latin,
Like fustian heretofore on satin;
It had an odd promiscuous tone,
As if h’ had talk’d three parts in one;
Which made some think, when he did gabble,
Th’ had heard three labourers of Babel;
Or Cerberus himself pronounce11
A leash of languages at once.
This he as volubly would vent
As if his stock would ne’er be spent;
And truly, to support that charge,
He had supplies as vast and large:
For he could coin, or counterfeit
New words, with little or no wit:
Words so debas’d and hard, no stone
Was hard enough to touch them on:
And when with hasty noise he spoke ’em,
The ignorant for current took ’em;
That had the orator, who once12
Did fill his mouth with pebble stones
When he harangu’d, but known his phrase
He would have us’d no other ways.
In Mathematicks he was greater
Than Tycho Brahe,13 or Erra Pater:
For he, by geometric scale,
Could take the size of pots of ale;
Resolve, by sines and tangents straight,
If bread or butter wanted weight,
And wisely tell what hour o’ th’ day
The clock does strike, by algebra.
Beside, he was a shrewd philosopher,
And had read ev’ry text and gloss over
Whate’er the crabbed’st author hath,
He understood b’ implicit faith:
Whatever sceptic could inquire for,14
For ev’ry why he had a wherefore;
Knew more than forty of them do,
As far as words and terms could go.
All which he understood by rote,
And, as occasion serv’d, would quote:
No matter whether right or wrong,
They might be either said or sung.
His notions fitted things so well,
That which was which he could not tell;
But oftentimes mistook the one
For th’ other, as great clerks have done.
He could reduce all things to acts,15
And knew their natures by abstracts;
Where entity and quiddity,
The ghosts of defunct bodies fly;
Where truth in person does appear,16
Like words congeal’d in northern air.17
He knew what’s what, and that’s as high
As metaphysic wit can fly.
In school-divinity as able
As he that hight, Irrefragable;18
A second Thomas, or, at once,
To name them all, another Dunce:19
Profound in all the nominal
And real ways, beyond them all;
For he a rope of sand could twist
As tough as learned Sorbonist;20
And weave fine cobwebs, fit for skull
That’s empty when the moon is full;
Such as take lodgings in a head
That’s to be let unfurnished.
He could raise scruples dark and nice,
And after solve ’em in a trice;
As if Divinity had catch’d
The itch on purpose to be scratch’d;
Or, like a mountebank, did wound
And stab herself with doubts profound,
Only to show with how small pain
The sores of Faith are cur’d again;
Although by woeful proof we find
They always leave a scar behind.
He knew the seat of Paradise,21
Could tell in what degree it lies;
And, as he was dispos’d, could prove it,
Below the moon, or else above it:
What Adam dreamt of, when his bride
Came from her closet in his side:
Whether the devil tempted her
By a High Dutch interpreter;22
If either of them had a navel:23
Who first made music malleable:24
Whether the serpent, at the fall,
Had cloven feet, or none at all.
All this without a gloss or comment,
He could unriddle in a moment,
In proper terms, such as men smatter
When they throw out, and miss the matter.

For his religion, it was fit
To match his learning and his wit:
’Twas Presbyterian true blue;
For he was of that stubborn crew
Of errant saints, whom all men grant
To be the true church militant;
Such as do build their faith upon
The holy text of pike and gun;
Decide all controversies by
Infallible artillery;
And prove their doctrine orthodox
By apostolic blows and knocks;
Call fire and sword and desolation,
A godly thorough reformation,
Which always must be carried on,
And still be doing, never done:
As if religion were intended
For nothing else but to be mended.
A sect, whose chief devotion lies
In odd perverse antipathies;
In falling out with that or this,
And finding somewhat still amiss;
More peevish, cross, and splenetick,
Than dog distract, or monkey sick.
That with more care keep holy-day
The wrong, than others the right way;
Compound for sins they are inclin’d to,
By damning those they have no mind to:
Still so perverse and opposite,
As if they worshipp’d God for spite.
The self-same thing they will abhor
One way, and long another for.
Free-will they one way disavow;
Another, nothing else allow.
All piety consists therein
In them, in other men all sin.
Rather than fail, they will decry
That which they love most tenderly;
Quarrel with minc’d-pies, and disparage
Their best and dearest friend, plum-porridge.
Fat pig and goose itself oppose,
And blaspheme custard through the nose.
Th’ apostles of this fierce religion,
Like Mahomet’s, were ass and widgeon;25
To whom our Knight, by fast instinct
Of wit and temper, was so linkt,
As if hypocrisy and nonsense
Had got th’ advowson of his conscience.

Thus was he gifted and accouter’d;
We mean on th’ inside, not the outward;
That next of all we shall discuss:
Then listen, Sirs, it follows thus:
His tawny beard was th’ equal grace
Both of his wisdom and his face;
In cut and dye so like a tile,
A sudden view it would beguile:
The upper part thereof was whey;
The nether, orange mix’d with grey.
This hairy meteor did denounce
The fall of sceptres and of crowns;
With grisly type did represent
Declining age of government;
And tell with hieroglyphick spade,
Its own grave and the state’s were made.
Like Samson’s heart-breakers, it grew
In time to make a nation rue;
Though it contributed its own fall,
To wait upon the publick downfall:
It was monastick, and did grow
In holy orders by strict vow;26
Of rule as sullen and severe
As that of rigid Cordelier.
’Twas bound to suffer persecution
And martyrdom with resolution;
T’ oppose itself against the hate
And vengeance of th’ incensed state;
In whose defiance it was worn,
Still ready to be pull’d and torn;
With red-hot irons to be tortur’d;
Revil’d, and spit upon, and martyr’d.
Maugre all which, ’twas to stand fast
As long as monarchy should last;
But when the state should hap to reel,
’Twas to submit to fatal steel,
And fall, as it was consecrate,
A sacrifice to fall of state;
Whose thread of life the fatal sisters
Did twist together with its whiskers,
And twine so close, that Time should never,
In life or death, their fortunes sever;
But with his rusty sickle mow
Both down together at a blow.
So learned Taliacotius27 from
The brawny part of porter’s bum
Cut supplemental noses, which
Would last as long as parent breech;
But when the date of nock was out,
Off dropp’d the sympathetic snout.

His back, or rather burthen, show’d,
As if it stoop’d with its own load:
For as Aeneas28 bore his sire
Upon his shoulders thro’ the fire,
Our Knight did bear no less a pack
Of his own buttocks on his back;
Which now had almost got the upper-
Hand of his head, for want of crupper.
To poise this equally, he bore
A paunch of the same bulk before;
Which still he had a special care
To keep well-cramm’d with thrifty fare;
As white-pot, butter-milk, and curds,
Such as a country-house affords;
With other vittle, which anon
We farther shall dilate upon,
When of his hose we come to treat,
The cupboard where he kept his meat.

His doublet was of sturdy buff,
And though not sword, yet cudgel-proof;
Whereby ’twas fitter for his use,
Who fear’d no blows, but such as bruise.

His breeches were of rugged woollen,
And had been at the siege of Bullen;
To old king Harry so well known,
Some writers held they were his own.
Thro’ they were lin’d with many a piece
Of ammunition bread and cheese,
And fat black-puddings, proper food
For warriors that delight in blood.
For, as we said, he always chose
To carry vittle in his hose,
That often tempted rats and mice
The ammunition to surprise:
And when he put a hand but in
The one or t’ other magazine,
They stoutly in defence on’t stood,
And from the wounded foe drew blood;
And till th’ were storm’d and beaten out,
Ne’er left the fortify’d redoubt.
And though knights-errant, as some think,
Of old did neither eat nor drink,
Because, when thorough deserts vast,
And regions desolate, they past,
Where belly-timber above ground,
Or under, was not to be found,
Unless they graz’d, there’s not one word
Of their provision on record;
Which made some confidently write,
They had no stomachs, but to fight.
’Tis false: for Arthur29 wore in hall
Round table like a farthingal,
On which, with shirt pull’d out behind,
And eke before, his good knights din’d.
Though ’twas no table, some suppose,
But a huge pair of round trunk hose;
In which he carry’d as much meat
As he and all the knights could eat,
When, laying by their swords and truncheons,
They took their breakfasts, or their nuncheons.
But let that pass at present, lest
We should forget where we digrest,
As learned authors use, to whom
We leave it, and to th’ purpose come,

His puissant sword unto his side,
Near his undaunted heart, was ty’d;
With basket-hilt, that would hold broth,
And serve for fight and dinner both.
In it he melted lead for bullets,
To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets,
To whom he bore so fell a grutch,
He ne’er gave quarter t’ any such.
The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty,30
For want of fighting, was grown rusty,
And ate unto itself, for lack
Of somebody to hew and hack.
The peaceful scabbard where it dwelt
The rancour of its edge had felt;
For of the lower end two handful
It had devour’d, ’twas so manful;
And so much scorn’d to lurk in case,
As if it durst not shew its face.
In many desperate attempts,
Of warrants, exigents, contempts,
It had appear’d with courage bolder
Than Serjeant Bum invading shoulder.
Oft had it ta’en possession,
And pris’ners too, or made them run.

This sword a dagger had t’ his page,
That was but little for his age;
And therefore waited on him so,
As dwarfs upon knights-errant do.
It was a serviceable dudgeon,
Either for fighting or for drudging.
When it had stabb’d, or broke a head,
It would scrape trenchers, or chip bread;
Toast cheese or bacon; though it were
To bait a mouse-trap, ’twould not care.
’Twould make clean shoes; and in the earth
Set leeks and onions, and so forth.
It had been ’prentice to a brewer,
Where this and more it did endure;
But left the trade, as many more
Have lately done on the same score.31

In th’ holsters, at his saddle-bow,
Two aged pistols he did stow,
Among the surplus of such meat
As in his hose he could not get.
These would inveigle rats with th’ scent,
To forage when the cocks were bent:
And sometimes catch ’em with a snap
As cleverly as th’ ablest trap.
They were upon hard duty still,
And ev’ry night stood sentinel,
To guard the magazine i’ the hose
From two-legg’d and from four-legg’d foes.

Thus clad and fortify’d, Sir Knight
From peaceful home set forth to fight.
But first with nimble, active force
He got on th’ outside of his horse;
For having but one stirrup ty’d
T’ his saddle, on the farther side,
It was so short h’ had much ado
To reach it with his desp’rate toe:
But after many strains and heaves,
He got up to the saddle-eaves,
From whence he vaulted into th’ seat,
With so much vigour, strength and heat,
That he had almost tumbled over
With his own weight, but did recover,
By laying hold on tail and mane,
Which oft he us’d instead of rein.

But now we talk of mounting steed,
Before we further do proceed,
It doth behove us to say something
Of that which bore our valiant bumpkin.
The beast was sturdy, large, and tall,
With mouth of meal, and eyes of wall.
I would say eye; for h’ had but one,
As most agree; though some say none.
He was well stay’d; and in his gait
Preserv’d a grave, majestick state.
At spur or switch no more he skipt,
Or mended pace, than Spaniard whipt;
And yet so fiery, he would bound
As if he griev’d to touch the ground:
That Caesar’s horse who, as fame goes
Had corns upon his feet and toes,32
Was not by half so tender hooft,
Nor trod upon the ground so soft.
And as that beast would kneel and stoop
(Some write) to take his rider up,
So Hudibras his (’tis well known)
Would often do to set him down.
We shall not need to say what lack
Of leather was upon his back;
For that was hidden under pad,
And breech of Knight, gall’d full as bad.
His strutting ribs on both sides show’d
Like furrows he himself had plow’d;
For underneath the skirt of pannel,
’Twixt ev’ry two there was a channel.
His draggling tail hung in the dirt,
Which on his rider he would flirt,
Still as his tender side he prick’d,
With arm’d heel, or with unarm’d, kick’d;
For Hudibras wore but one spur;
As wisely knowing, could he stir
To active trot one side of ’s horse,
The other would not hang an arse.

A squire he had, whose name was Ralph,
That in th’ adventure went his half:
Though writers, for more stately tone,
Do call him Ralpho; ’tis all one;
And when we can with metre safe,
We’ll call him so; if not, plain Ralph.
(For rhyme the rudder is of verses,
With which like ships they steer their courses.)
An equal stock of wit and valour
He had laid in; by birth a tailor.
The mighty Tyrian queen, that gain’d
With subtle shreds a tract of land,33
Did leave it with a castle fair
To his great ancestor, her heir.
From him descended cross-legg’d knights,
Fam’d for their faith, and warlike fights
Against the bloody cannibal,
Whom they destroy’d both great and small.
This sturdy Squire he had, as well
As the bold Trojan knight, seen Hell;34
Not with a counterfeited pass
Of golden bough, but true gold-lace.
His knowledge was not far behind
The Knight’s, but of another kind,
And he another way came by ’t:
Some call it Gifts, and some New-Light;
A liberal art that costs no pains
Of study, industry, or brains.
His wit was sent him for a token,
But in the carriage crack’d and broken.
Like commendation nine-pence crook’d,
With—To and from my love—it look’d.
He ne’er consider’d it, as loth
To look a gift-horse in the mouth;
And very wisely would lay forth
No more upon it than ’twas worth.
But as he got it freely, so
He spent it frank and freely too.
For Saints themselves will sometimes be
Of gifts that cost them nothing, free.
By means of this, with hem and cough,
Prolongers to enlighten’d stuff,
He could deep mysteries unriddle
As easily as thread a needle.
For as of vagabonds we say,
That they are ne’er beside their way;
Whate’er men speak by this New Light,
Still they are sure to be i’ th’ right.
’Tis a dark-lantern of the spirit,
Which none see by but those that bear it:
A light that falls down from on high,
For spiritual trades to cozen by:
An ignis fatuus, that bewitches
And leads men into pools and ditches,
To make them dip themselves, and sound
For Christendom in dirty pond;
To dive like wild-fowl for salvation,
And fish to catch regeneration.
This light inspires and plays upon
The nose of saint like bag-pipe drone,
And speaks through hollow empty soul,
As through a trunk, or whisp’ring hole,
Such language as no mortal ear
But spirit’al eaves-droppers can hear:
So Phoebus, or some friendly muse,
Into small poets’ song infuse,
Which they at second-hand rehearse,
Thro’ reed or bag-pipe, verse for verse.

Thus Ralph became infallible
As three or four-legg’d oracle,35
The ancient cup, or modern chair;
Spoke truth point-blank, though unaware.

For mystick learning, wondrous able
In magick Talisman and Cabal,36
Whose primitive tradition reaches
As far as Adam’s first green breeches:37
Deep sighted in intelligences,
Ideas, atoms, influences;
And much of terra incognita,
Th’ intelligible world, could say:38
A deep occult Philosopher,
As learn’d as the wild Irish are,39
Or Sir Agrippa; for profound40
And solid lying much renown’d.
He Anthroposophus, and Floud,
And Jacob Behmen understood:41
Knew many an amulet and charm,
That would do neither good nor harm:
In Rosy-crucian lore as learned,
As he that Vere adeptus earned.42
He understood the speech of birds
As well as they themselves do words;
Cou’d tell what subtlest parrots mean,
That speak, and think contrary clean:
What member ’tis of whom they talk,
When they cry Rope, and Walk, knave, walk.
He’d extract numbers out of matter,
And keep them in a glass, like water;
Of sov’reign pow’r to make men wise;
For drop’d in blear thick-sighted eyes,
They’d make them see in darkest night,
Like owls, though purblind in the light.
By help of these (as he profess’d)
He had First Matter seen undress’d:
He took her naked all alone,
Before one rag of form was on.
The Chaos too he had descry’d,
And seen quite thro’, or else he ly’d:
Not that of paste-board which men shew
For groats, at fair of Barthol’mew;
But its great grandsire, first o’ the name,
Whence that and Reformation came;
Both cousin-germans, and right able
T’ inveigle and draw in the rabble.
But Reformation was, some say,
O’ th’ younger house to Puppet-play.
He could foretel whats’ever was
By consequence to come to pass;
As death of great men, alterations,
Diseases, battles, inundations,
All this, without th’ eclipse o’ th’ sun,
Or dreadful comet, he hath done,
By inward light; away as good,
And easy to be understood;
But with more lucky hit than those
That use to make the stars depose,
Like knights o’ th’ post, and falsely charge
Upon themselves what others forge:
As if they were consenting to
All mischiefs in the world men do:
Or, like the Devil, did tempt and sway ’em
To rogueries, and then betray ’em.
They’ll search a planet’s house, to know
Who broke and robb’d a house below:
Examine Venus, and the Moon,
Who stole a thimble or a spoon;
And though they nothing will confess,
Yet by their very looks can guess,
And tell what guilty aspect bodes,
Who stole, and who receiv’d the goods.
They’ll question Mars, and by his look,
Detect who ’twas that nimm’d a cloke;
Make Mercury confess, and ’peach
Those thieves which he himself did teach.
They’ll find, i’ th’ physiognomies
O’ th’ planets, all men’s destinies;
Like him that took the doctor’s bill,
And swallow’d it instead o’ th’ pill:
Cast the nativity o’ th’ question,
And from positions to be guess’d on,
As sure as if they knew the moment
Of natives birth, tell what will come on’t.
They’ll feel the pulses of the stars,
To find out agues, coughs, catarrhs;
And tell what crisis does divine
The rot in sheep, or mange in swine
In men, what gives or cures the itch;
What makes them cuckolds, poor or rich;
What gains or loses, hangs or saves;
What makes men great, what fools or knaves,
But not what wise; for only of those
The stars (they say) cannot dispose,
No more than can the astrologians.
There they say right, and like true Trojans.
This Ralpho knew, and therefore took
The other course, of which we spoke.

Thus was the accomplish’d Squire endu’d
With gifts and knowledge, per’lous shrewd.
Never did trusty Squire with Knight,
Or Knight with Squire, e’er jump more right.
Their arms and equipage did fit,
As well as virtues, parts, and wit.
Their valours too were of a rate;
And out they sally’d at the gate.
Few miles on horseback had they jogged,
But Fortune unto them turn’d dogged;
For they a sad adventure met,
Of which anon we mean to treat;
But ere we venture to unfold
Achievements so resolv’d and bold,
We should as learned poets use,
Invoke the assistance of some muse:
However, critics count it sillier
Than jugglers talking to familiar.
We think ’tis no great matter which;
They’re all alike; yet we shall pitch
On one that fits our purpose most
Whom therefore thus do we accost:

Thou that with ale, or viler liquors,
Did’st inspire Withers, Pryn, and Vickars,43
And force them, though it was in spite
Of nature and their stars, to write;
Who, as we find in sullen writs,
And cross-grain’d works of modern wits,
With vanity, opinion, want,
The wonder of the ignorant,
The praises of the author, penn’d
B’ himself, or wit-ensuring friend;
The itch of picture in the front,
With bays and wicked rhyme upon’t;
All that is left o’ th’ forked hill,
To make men scribble without skill;
Canst make a poet spite of fate,
And teach all people to translate,
Though out of languages in which
They understand no part of speech;
Assist me but this once, I ’mplore,
And I shall trouble thee no more.

In western clime there is a town,
To those that dwell therein well known;
Therefore there needs no more be said here;
We unto them refer our reader;
For brevity is very good,
When w’ are, or are not, understood.
To this town people did repair,
On days of market, or of fair,
And, to crack’d fiddle, and hoarse tabor,
In merriment did drudge and labour.
But now a sport more formidable
Had rak’d together village rabble;
’Twas an old way of recreating,
Which learned butchers call bear-baiting:
A bold advent’rous exercise,
With ancient heroes in high prize:
For authors do affirm it came
From Isthmian or Nemean game:
Others derive it from the bear
That’s fix’d in northern hemisphere,
And round about the pole does make
A circle like a bear at stake,
That at the chain’s end wheels about,
And overturns the rabble-rout.
For after solemn proclamation,
In the bear’s name, (as is the fashion,
According to the law of arms,
To keep men from inglorious harms,)
That none presume to come so near
As forty foot of stake of bear,
If any yet be so fool-hardy,
T’ expose themselves to vain jeopardy,
If they come wounded off, and lame,
No honour’s got by such a maim;
Altho’ the bear gain much, b’ing bound
In honour to make good his ground,
When he’s engag’d, and takes no notice,
If any press upon him, who ’tis;
But let’s them know, at their own cost,
That he intends to keep his post.
This to prevent, and other harms,
Which always wait on feats of arms
(For in the hurry of a fray
’Tis hard to keep out of harm’s way,)
Thither the Knight his course did steer,
To keep the peace ’twixt dog and bear;
As he believ’d he was bound to do
In conscience, and commission too;
And therefore thus bespoke the Squire:

We that are wisely mounted higher44
Than constables in curule wit,
When on tribunal bench we sit,
Like speculators should foresee,
From Pharos of authority,
Portended mischiefs farther then
Low Proletarian tything-men:
And therefore being inform’d by bruit,
That dog and bear are to dispute;
For so of late men fighting name,
Because they often prove the same
(For where the first does hap to be,
The last does coincidere;)
Quantum in nobis, have thought good,
To save th’ expense of Christian blood,
And try if we, by mediation
Of treaty and accommodation,
Can end the quarrel and compose
The bloody duel without blows.
Are not our liberties, our lives,
The laws, religion, and our wives,
Enough at once to lie at stake
For Cov’nant and the Cause’s sake?
But in that quarrel dogs and bears,
As well as we, must venture theirs
This feud, by Jesuits invented,
By evil counsel is fomented;
There is a Machiavelian plot,
(Though every nare olfact is not,)
A deep design in’t, to divide
The well-affected that confide,
By setting brother against brother,
To claw and curry one another.
Have we not enemies, plus satis,
That, cane et angue pejus, hate us?
And shall we turn our fangs and claws
Upon our own selves, without cause?
That some occult design doth lie
In bloody cynarctomachy,45
Is plain enough to him that knows
How saints lead brothers by the nose.
I wish myself a pseudo-prophet,
But sure some mischief will come of it;
Unless by providential wit,
Or force, we averruncate it.46
For what design, what interest,
Can beast have to encounter beast?
They fight for no espoused cause,
Frail privilege, fundamental laws,
Not for a thorough reformation,
Nor covenant, nor protestation,
Nor liberty of consciences,
Nor Lords and Commons’ ordinances;
Nor for the church, nor for church-lands,
To get them in their own no-hands;
Nor evil counsellors to bring
To justice that seduce the king;
Nor for the worship of us men,
Though we have done as much for them.
Th’ Egyptians worshipp’d dogs, and for
Their faith made internecine war.
Others ador’d a rat, and some
For that church suffer’d martyrdom.
The Indians fought for the truth
Of th’ elephant and monkey’s tooth,47
And many, to defend that faith,
Fought it out, mordicus, to death.
But no beast ever was so slight,
For man, as for his God, to fight.
They have more wit, alas! and know
Themselves and us better than so.
But we, who only do infuse
The rage in them like Boute-feus;48
’Tis our example that instils
In them th’ infection of our ills.
For, as some late philosophers.
Have well observ’d, beasts that converse
With man, take after him, as hogs
Get pigs all th’ year, and bitches dogs.
Just so, by our example, cattle
Learn to give one another battle.
We read, in Nero’s time, the heathen,
When they destroy’d the Christian brethren,
Did sew them in the skins of bears,
And then set dogs about their ears:
From thence, no doubt, th’ invention came
Of this lewd antichristian game.

To this, quoth Ralpho, Verily
The point seems very plain to me.
It is an antichristian game,
Unlawful both in thing and name.
First, for the name: the word, bear-baiting
Is carnal, and of man’s creating:
For certainly there’s no such word
In all the Scripture on record;
Therefore unlawful, and a sin;
And so is (secondly) the thing.
A vile assembly ’tis, that can
No more be prov’d by Scripture than
Provincial, classic, national;
Mere human creature-cobwebs all.
Thirdly, it is idolatrous;
For when men run a whoring thus
With their inventions, whatsoe’er
The thing be, whether dog or bear,
It is idolatrous and pagan,
No less than worshipping of Dagon.

Quoth Hudibras, I smell a rat:
Ralpho, thou dost prevaricate;
For though the thesis which thou lay’st
Be true ad amussim, as thou say’st;
(For that bear-baiting should appear
Jure divino, lawfuller
Than synods are, thou dost deny,
Totidem verbis: so do I;)
Yet there’s a fallacy in this;
For if by sly homoeosis,
Tussis pro crepitu, an art
Under a cough to slur a fart,
Thou wouldst sophistically imply
Both are unlawful, I deny.

And I (quoth Ralpho) do not doubt
But bear-baiting may be made out,
In gospel-times, as lawful as is
Provincial or parochial classis;
And that both are so near of kin,
And like in all, as well as sin,
That put them in a bag, and shake ’em,
Yourself o’ th’ sudden would mistake ’em,
And not know which is which, unless
You measure by their wickedness:
For ’tis not hard t’imagine whether
O’ th’ two is worst; though I name neither.

Quoth Hudibras, Thou offer’st much,
But art not able to keep touch.
Mira de lente, as ’tis i’ th’ adage,
Id est, to make a leek a cabbage;
Thou wilt at best but such a bull,
Or shear-swine, all cry and no wool;
For what can synods have at all
With bear that’s analogical?
Or what relation has debating
Of church-affairs with bear-baiting?
A just comparison still is
Of things ejusdem generis;
And then what genius rightly doth
Include and comprehend them both?
If animal, both of us may
As justly pass for bears as they;
For we are animals no less,
Altho’ of different specieses.
But, Ralpho, this is no fit place
Nor time to argue out the case:
For now the field is not far off,
Where we must give the world a proof
Of deeds, not words, and such as suit
Another manner of dispute;
A controversy that affords
Actions for arguments, not words;
Which we must manage at a rate
Of prowess and conduct adequate
To what our place and fame doth promise,
And all the godly expect from us.
Nor shall they be deceiv’d, unless
We’re slurr’d and outed by success;
Success, the mark no mortal wit,
Or surest hand, can always hit:
For whatsoe’er we perpetrate,
We do but row, we’re steer’d by Fate,
Which in success oft disinherits,
For spurious causes, noblest merits.
Great actions are not always true sons
Of great and mighty resolutions;
Nor do th’ boldest attempts bring forth
Events still equal to their worth;
But sometimes fail, and in their stead
Fortune and cowardice succeed.
Yet we have no great cause to doubt;
Our actions still have borne us out;
Which, though they’re known to be so ample,
We need not copy from example.
We’re not the only persons durst
Attempt this province, nor the first.
In northern clime a val’rous knight
Did whilom kill his bear in fight,
And wound a fiddler; we have both
Of these the objects of our wroth,
And equal fame and glory from
Th’ attempt of victory to come.
’Tis sung, there is a valiant Mamaluke49
In foreign land, yclep’d—
To whom we have been oft compar’d
For person, parts, address, and beard;
Both equally reputed stout,
And in the same cause both have fought;
He oft in such attempts as these
Came off with glory and success;
Nor will we fail in th’ execution,
For want of equal resolution.
Honour is like a widow, won50
With brisk attempt and putting on;
With ent’ring manfully, and urging;
Not slow approaches, like a virgin.

’Tis said, as erst the Phrygian knight,
So ours with rusty steel did smite
His Trojan horse, and just as much
He mended pace upon the touch;
But from his empty stomach groan’d
Just as that hollow beast did sound,
And angry answer’d from behind,
With brandish’d tail and blast of wind.
So have I seen, with armed heel,
A wight bestride a common-weal;
While still the more he kick’d and spurr’d
The less the sullen jade had stirr’d.