A strange chimera of beasts and men, Made up of pieces heterogene;

Such as in Nature never met

In eodem subiecto yet.

"Thy other arguments are all Supposures hypothetical,

That do but beg; and we may choose
Either to grant them, or refuse.

Much thou hast said, which I know when
And where thou stol'st from other men,
(Whereby 'tis plain thy light and gifts
Are all but plagiary shifts)

And is the same that Ranter said,
Who, arguing with me, broke my head,
And tore a handful of my beard;
The self-same cavils then I heard,
When, being in hot dispute about
This controversy, we fell out;

And what thou know'st I answer'd then,
Will serve to answer thee again."

Quoth Ralpho, "Nothing but th' abuse
Of human learning you produce;
Learning, that cobweb of the brain,
Profane, erroneous, and vain;
A trade of knowledge, as replete
As others are with fraud and cheat;
An art t' incumber gifts and wit,
And render both for nothing fit;

Makes light unactive, dull, and troubled,
Like little David in Saul's doublet:

A cheat that scholars put upon
Other men's reason and their own;
A fort of errour to ensconce
Absurdity and ignorance,

That renders all the avenues
To truth impervious and abstruse,
By making plain things, in debate,
By art perplext and intricate:
For nothing goes for sense or light,
That will not with old rules jump right;
As if rules were not in the schools
Deriv'd from truth, but truth from rules.
This pagan, heathenish invention
Is good for nothing but contention :
For as, in sword and buckler fight,
All blows do on the target light;
So when men argue, the great'st part
O' th' contest falls on terms of art,
Until the fustian stuff be spent,
And then they fall to th' argument."
Quoth Hudibras, "Friend Ralph, thou hast
Outrun the constable at last:
For thou art fallen on a new
Dispute, as senseless as untrue,
But to the former opposite,
And contrary as black to white;
Mere disparata; that concerning
Presbytery, this human learning;
Two things s' averse, they never yet
But in thy rambling fancy met.
But I shall take a fit occasion

T' evince thee by' ratiocination,

Some other time, in place more proper

Than this we're in; therefore let's stop here,

And rest our weary'd bones a while,
Already tir'd with other toil."

PART II. CANTO I

THE ARGUMENT.

The knight, by damnable magician,
Being cast illegally in prison,
Love brings his action on the case,
And lays it upon Hudibras.
How he receives the lady's visit,
And cunningly solicits his suit,
Which she defers; yet, on parole,
Redeems him from th' enchanted hole.

But now, t' observe romantic method,
Let bloody steel a while be sheathed;
And all those harsh and rugged sounds
Of bastinados, cuts, and wounds,
Exchang'd to Love's more gentle style,
To let our reader breathe a while:
In which, that we may be as brief as
Is possible, by way of preface,
Is't not enough to make one strange,

That some men's fancies should ne'er change,
But make all people do and say

The same things still the self-same way?
Some writers make all ladies purloin'd,
And knights pursuing like a whirlwind:
Others make all their knights, in fits
Of jealousy, to lose their wits;

Till, drawing blood o' th' dames, like witches,
They're forthwith cur'd of their capriches.
Some always thrive in their amours,
By pulling plaisters off their sores;
As cripples do to get an alms,

Just so do they, and win their dames.
Some force whole regions, in despite
O' geography, to change their site;
Make former times shake hands with latter,
And that which was before come after.
But those that write in rhyme still make
The one verse for th' other's sake;

For one for sense, and one for rhyme,

I think 's sufficient at one time.

But we forget in what sad plight
We whilom left the captive knight
And pensive squire, both bruis'd in body,
And conjur'd into safe custody.

Tir'd with dispute, and speaking Latin,
As well as basting and bear-baiting,
And desperate of any course,
To free himself by wit or force,

His only solace was, that now
His dog-bolt fortune was so low,
That either it must quickly end,
Or turn about again, and mend,
In which he found th' event, no less
Than other times, beside his guess.

There is a tall long-sided dame,
(But wonderous light) ycleped Fame,
That like a thin cameleon boards
Herself on air, and eats her words;
Upon her shoulders wings she wears
Like hanging sleeves, lin'd through with ears,
And eyes, and tongues, as poets list,
Made good by deep mythologist:
With these she through the welkin flies,
And sometimes carries truth, oft lies;
With letters hung, like eastern pigeons,
And Mercuries of furthest regions;
Diurnals writ for regulation

Of lying, to inform the nation,
And by their public use to bring down
The rate of whetstones in the kingdom.
About her neck a pacquet-mail,

Fraught with advice, some fresh, some stale,
Of men that walk'd when they were dead,
And cows of monsters brought to bed;
Of hailstones big as pullets' eggs,

And puppies whelp'd with twice two legs;
A blazing-star seen in the west,
By six or seven men at least.

Two trumpets she does sound at once,
But both of clean contrary tones;

But whether both with the same wind,
Or one before, and one behind,
We know not, only this can tell,
The one sounds vilely, th' other well,
And therefore vulgar authors name
Th' one Good, th' other Evil Fame.

This tattling gossip knew too well
What mischief Hudibras befel,
And straight the spiteful tidings bears
Of all, to th' unkind Widow's ears.
Democritus ne'er laugh'd so loud,
To see bawds carted through the crowd,
Or funerals, with stately pomp,
March slowly on in solemn dump,
As she laugh'd out, until her back,
As well as sides, was like to crack.
She vow'd she would go see the sight,
And visit the distressed knight;
To do the office of a neighbour,
And be a gossip at his labour;
And from his wooden gaol, the stocks,
To set at large his fetter-locks;

And by exchange, parole, or ransom,
To free him from th' enchanted mansion.
This being resolv'd, she call'd for hood
And usher, implements abroad
Which ladies wear, beside a slender
Young waiting-damsel to attend her.
All which appearing, on she went
To find the knight, in limbo pent:
And 'twas not long before she found
Him and his stout squire in the pound;
Both coupled in enchanted tether,
By further leg behind together:
For as he sat upon his rump,
His head, like one in doleful dump,
Between his knees, his hands apply'd
Unto his ears on either side,.
And by him, in another hole,
Afflicted Ralpho, cheek by jowl:
She came upon him in his wooden
Magician's circle, on the sudden,
As spirits do t'a conjurer,

When in their dreadful shapes th' appear.
No sooner did the knight perceive her,
But straight he fell into a fever,
Inflam'd all over with disgrace,
To be seen by' her in such a place:
Which made him hang his head and scoul,
And wink and goggle like an owl;
He felt his brains begin to swim,
When thus the dame accosted him.

"This place," quoth she, "they say's enchanted,
And with delinquent spirits haunted,
That here are ty'd in chains, and scourg'd,
Until their guilty crimes be purg'd:
Look, there are two of them appear,
Like persons I have seen somewhere.
Some have mistaken blocks and posts
For spectres, apparitions, ghosts,
With saucer-eyes and horns; and some
Have heard the Devil beat a drum;
But if our eyes are not false glasses,
That give a wrong account of faces,
That beard and I should be acquainted,
Before 'twas conjur'd and enchanted;
For though it be disfigur'd somewhat,
As if 't had lately been in combat,
It did belong to a worthy knight,
Howe'er this goblin is come by't."

When Hudibras the lady heard
Discoursing thus upon his beard,
And speak with such respect and honour
Both of the beard and the beard's owner,
He thought it best to set as good
A face upon it as he cou'd;

And thus he spoke: "Lady, your bright
And radiant eyes are in the right;
The beard's th' identic beard you knew,
The same numerically true;
Nor is it worn by fiend or elf,
But its proprietor himself."

66 can that be true?

"O Heavens !" quoth she,
I do begin to fear 'tis you;
Not by your individual whiskers,
But by your dialect and discourse,
That never spoke to man or beast
In notions vulgarly exprest:
But what malignant star, alas!

Has brought you both to this sad pass?"
Quoth he, "The fortune of the war,
Which I am less afflicted for,

Than to be seen with beard and face

By you in such a homely case."

Quoth she, "Those need not be asham'd For being honourably maim'd;

If he that is in battle conquer'd

Have any title to his own beard,

Though your's be sorely lugg'd and torn,

It does your visage more adorn,

Than if 'twere prun'd, and starch'd, and lander'd, And cut square by the Russian standard.

A torn beard 's like a tatter'd ensign,

That's bravest which there are most rents in.
That petticoat about your shoulders,
Does not so well become a soldier's;

And I'm afraid they are worse handled,

Although i' th' rear, your beard the van led;
And those uneasy bruises make
My heart for company to ache,
To see so worshipful a friend

I' th' pillory set, at the wrong end."
Quoth Hudibras, "This thing call'd pain
Is (as the learned Stoics maintain)
Not bad simpliciter, nor good,
But merely as 'tis understood.
Sense is deceitful, and may feigu
As well in counterfeiting pain
As other gross phænomenas,
In which it oft mistakes the case.
But since th' immortal intellect
(That's free from errour and defect,
Whose objects still persist the same)
Is free from outward bruise or maim,
Which nought external can expose
To gross material bangs or blows,
It follows, we can ne'er be sure
Whether we pain or not endure,
And just so far are sore and griev'd
As by the fancy is believ'd.

Some have been wounded with conceit,
And dy'd of mere opinion straight;

Others, though wounded sore in reason,
Felt no contusion, nor discretion.

A Saxon duke did grow so fat,

That mice (as histories relate)

Ate grots and labyrinths to dwell in

His postique parts, without his feeling;
Then how's it possible a kick

Shou'd e'er reach that way to the quick?"

Quoth she, "I grant it is in vain

For one that's basted to feel pain,
Because the pangs his bones endure
Contribute nothing to the cure;
Yet Honour hurt is wont to rage
With pain no med'cine can assuage."

Quoth he, "That Honour's very squeamish,
That takes a basting for a blemish:
For what's more honourable than scars,
Or skin to tatters rent in wars?

Some have been beaten till they know
What wood a cudgel's of by the blow:
Some kick'd, until they can feel whether
A shoe be Spanish or neat's leather;
And yet have met, after long running,

With some whom they have taught that cunning.
The furthest way about, to o'ercome,

In th' end does prove the nearest home.
By laws of learned duellists,

They that are bruis'd with wood or fists,
And think one beating may for once
Suffice, are cowards and poltroons;

"Th' old Romans freedom did bestow,
Our princes worship, with a blow,
King Pyrrhus cur'd his splenetic
And testy courtiers with a kick.
The Negus, when some mighty lord
Or potentate's to be restor'd,
And pardon'd for some great offence,
With which he's willing to dispense,
First has him laid upon his belly,
Then beaten back and side t' a jelly;
That done, he rises, humbly bows,
And gives thanks for the princely blows;
Departs not meanly proud, and boasting
Of his magnificent rib-roasting.
The beaten soldier proves most manful,
That, like his sword, endures the anvil,
And justly's held more formidable,
The more his valour's malleable:
But he that fears a bastinado,

Will run away from his own shadow :
And though I'm now in durance fast,
By our own party basely cast,
Ransom, exchange, parole, refus'd,
And worse than by th' enemy us'd;
In close catasta shut, past hope
Of wit or valour to elope;

As beards, the nearer that they tend
To th' earth, still grow more reverend;
And cannons shoot the higher pitches,
The lower we let down their breeches;
I'll make this low dejected fate
Advance me to a greater height."

And you b' experiment have prov'd,
I cannot love where I'm belov'd."
Quoth Hudibras, ""Tis a caprich
Beyond th' infliction of a witch;
So cheats to play with those still aim,
That do not understand the game,
Love in your heart as idly burns
As fire in antique Roman urns
To warm the dead, and vainly light
Those only that see nothing by't.
Have you not power to entertain,
And render love for love again;

As no man can draw in his breath
At once, and force out air beneath?
Or do you love yourself so much,
To bear all rivals else a grutch?
What Fate can lay a greater curse
Than you upon yourself would force?
For wedlock without love, some say,
Is but a lock without a key.
It is a kind of rape to marry
One that neglects, or cares not for ye:
For what does make it ravishment
But being against the mind's consent?
A rape that is the more inhuman,
For being acted by a woman.
Why are you fair, but to entice us
To love you, that you may despise us?
But though you cannot love, you say,
Out of your own fanatic way,
Why should you not at least allow
Those that love you to do so too?
For, as you fly me, and pursue
Love more averse, so I do you;

With that which did my pity move.
Great wits and valours, like great states,
Do sometimes sink with their own weights:

Th' extremes of glory and of shame,
Like east and west, become the same.
No Indian prince has to his palace
More followers than a thief to the gallows.
But if a beating seem so brave,
What glories must a whipping have?
Such great achievements cannot fail
To cast salt on a woman's tail:
For if I thought your natural talent
Of passive courage were so gallant,
As you strain hard to have it thought,
I could grow amorous, and doat."

When Hudibras this language heard,
He prick'd up 's ears, and strok'd his beard.
Thought he, this is the lucky hour,
Wines work when vines are in the flower:
This crisis then I'll set my rest on,
And put her boldly to the quest'on.
"Madam, what you would seem to doubt,
Shall be to all the world made out;
How I've been drubb'd, and with what spirit
And magnanimity I bear it;
And if you doubt it to be true,
I'll stake myself down against you;

And if I fail in love or troth,

Be you the winner, and take both."

Quoth she, "I've heard old cunning stagers Say, fools for arguments use wagers; And though I prais'd your valour, yet I did not mean to baulk your wit; Which if you have, you must needs know What I have told you before now,

To practise what you call a fault."
Quoth she, "If what you say is true,
You must fly me as I do you;
But 'tis not what we do, but say,

In love and preaching, that must sway."
Quoth he, "To bid me not to love,

Is to forbid my pulse to move,
My beard to grow, my ears to prick up,
Or (when I'm in a fit) to hiccup.
Command me to piss out the Moon,
And 'twill as easily be done.

Love's power's too great to be withstood
By feeble human flesh and blood.
'Twas he that brought upon his knees
The hectoring kill-cow Hercules;
Transform'd his leager-lion's skin
T'a petticoat, and made him spin;
Seiz'd on his club, and made it dwindle
T'a feeble distaff and a spindle.
"Twas he that made emp'rors gallants
To their own sisters and their aunts;
Set popes and cardinals agog,
To play with pages at leap-frog:
'Twas he that gave our senate purges,
And fluxt the house of many a burgess;
Made those that represent the nation
Submit, and suffer amputation;
And all the grandees o' th' cabal
Adjourn to tubs at spring and fall.
He mounted synod-men, and rode them
To Dirty Lane and Little Sodom;
Made them curvet like Spanish Jenets,
And take the ring at madame

Stennet, a bawd.

Twas he that made Saint Francis do

More than the Devil could tempt him to,
In cold and frosty weather grow
Enamour'd of a wife of snow;

And, though she were of rigid temper,
With melting flames accost and tempt her,
Which after in enjoyment quenching,
He hung a garland on his engine."

Quoth she," If love have these effects,
Why is it not forbid our sex?
Why is 't not damn'd and interdicted,
For diabolical and wicked?

And sung, as out of tune, against,
As Turk and pope are by the saints?
I find I've greater reason for it,
Than I believ'd before, t' abhor it."

Quoth Hudibras, "These sad effects
Spring from your heathenish neglects
Of Love's great power, which he returns
Upon yourselves with equal scorns,
And those, who worthy lovers slight,
Plagues with preposterous appetite:
This made the beauteous queen of Crete
To take a town-bull for her sweet;
And from her greatness stoop so low,
To be the rival of a cow:

Others to prostitute their great hearts,
To be baboons' and monkeys' sweethearts:
Some with the Devil himself in league grow,
By 's representative a Negro.

Twas this made vestal maid love-sick,
And venture to be buried quick:

Some by their fathers and their brothers
To be made mistresses and mothers.
'Tis this that proudest dames enamours
On lacquies and valets de chambres;
Their haughty stomachs overcomes,
And makes them stoop to dirty grooms;
To slight the world, and to disparage
Claps, issue, infamy, and marriage."

Quoth she, "These judgments are severe,
Yet such as I should rather bear
Than trust men with their oaths, or prove
Their faith and secresy in love."

Says he, "There is as weighty reason For secresy in love, as treason. Love is a burglarer, a felon, That at the windore eye does steal in, To rob the heart; and with his prey Steals out again a closer way; Which whosoever can discover, He's sure (as he deserves) to suffer. Love is a fire, that burns and sparkles In men, as nat'rally as in charcoals, Which sooty chymists stop in holes, When out of wood they extract coals; So lovers should their passions choke, That though they burn they may not smoke. Tis like that sturdy thief that stole And dragg'd beasts backwards into 's hole; So Love does lovers, and us men Draws by the tails into his den, That no impression may discover, And trace t' his cave the wary lover. But if you doubt I should reveal What you intrust me under seal, Ill prove myself as close and virtuous As your own secretary Albertus."

Quoth she, "I grant you may be close In hiding what your aims propose:

Love-passions are like parables,

By which men still mean something else:
Though love be all the world's pretence,
Money's the mythologic sense,
The real substance of the shadow,
Which all address and courtship's made to."
Thought he, I understand your play,
And how to quit you your own way;
He that will win his dame, must do
As Love does, when he bends his bow;
With one hand thrust the lady from,
And with the other pull her home.
"I grant," quoth he, "wealth is a great
Provocative to amorous heat:

It is all philtres and high diet,
That makes love rampart and to fly out:
'Tis beauty always in the flower,
That buds and blossoms at fourscore:
'Tis that by which the Sun and Moon,
At their own weapons, are outdone :
That makes knights-errant fall in trances,
And lay about them in romances:
'Tis virtue, wit, and worth, and all
That men divine and sacred call:
For what is worth in any thing,
But so much money as 'twill bring?
Or what but riches is there known,
Which man can solely call his own,
In which no creature goes his half,
Unless it be to squint and laugh?
I do confess, with goods and land,
I'd have a wife at second hand;

And such you are: nor is 't your person
My stomach's set so sharp and fierce on;
But 'tis (your better part) your riches,
That my enamour'd heart bewitches :
Let me your fortune but possess,
And settle your person how you please,
Or make it o'er in trust to the Devil,
You'll find me reasonable and civil."

Quoth she, "I like this plainness better
Than false mock passion, speech, or letter,
Or any feat of qualm or sowning,
But hanging of yourself or drowning;
Your only way with me to break
Your mind, is breaking of your neck:
For as, when merchants break, o'erthrown
Like nine-pins, they strike others down;
So that would break my heart; which done,
My tempting fortune is your own.
These are but trifles; every lover
Will damn himself over and over,
And greater matters undertake
For a less worthy mistress' sake:
Yet they're the only ways to prove
Th' unfeign'd realities of love;
For he that hangs or beats out 's brains,
The Devil's in him if he feigns."

Quoth Hudibras, "This way's too rough
For mere experiment and proof;
It is no jesting, trivial matter,

To swing i' th' air, or douce in water,
And like a water-witch try love;
That's to destroy, and not to prove:
As if a man should be dissected,
To find what part is disaffected;
Your better way is to make over,
In trust, your fortune to your lover:
Trust is a trial; if it break,
'Tis not so desperate as a neck: