Engrav'd in Planetary hours,

That over Mortals had strange powers
To make 'em thrive in Law, or Trade;
And stab, or poyson, 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 Politicks,

Streight cast about to over-reach
Th' unwary Conqu'ror with a fetch,
And make him glad, (at least) to quit
His Victory, and fly the Pit,

Before the Secular Prince of Darkness
Arriv'd to seize upon his Carkass.
And, as a Fox, with hot pursuit,
Chac'd through a Warren, cast about
To save his credit, and among
Dead Vermin on a Gallows hung;
And while the Dogs ran underneath,
Escap'd (by counterfeiting Death)
Not out of Cunning, but a Train
Of Atoms justling in his Brain,
As learn'd Philosophers give out :
So Sidrophello cast about,

And fell to's w[o]nted Trade again,
To feign himself in earnest slain,

First, stretch'd out one leg, then another,
And seeming in his Breast 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 my self i' th' Moon;
And that a Monster with huge Whiskers,
More formidable than a Switzers,
My body through and through had dril'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 Grone,
And fell again into a swoun.

Shurchy

Shut both his Eies, and stopt 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 Publick work.
Despis'd our Synod-men like Durt.
And made their Discipline his sport;
Divulg'd the secrets of their Classes,
And their Conventions prov'd High Places;
Disparag'd their Tith-Pigs, as Pagan,
And set at nought their Cheese and Bacon;
Rail'd at their Covenant, and jear'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 Free-holders to be scan'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,
Than 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 disingage 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 Honor 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,

Essay'd the lofty Beast to mount;

Which once atchiev'd, he spurr'd his Palfry,
To get from th' Enemy, and Ralph, free;
Left Danger, Fears, and Foes behind,
And beat, at least three lengths, the Wind.

ΑΝ

HEROICAL EPISTLE

OF

HUDIBRAS

ΤΟ

SIDROPHEL.

Ecce iterum Crispinus

7Ell Sidrophel, though 'tis in vain
To tamper with your Crazy Brain,
Without Trepanning of your Scull,
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 desp'rat'st is the wisest course.
Is't possible, that you, whose Ears
Are of the Tribe of Issachars,
And might (with equal Reason) either
For Merit, or extent of Leather,
With William Pryn's, before they were
Retrench'd, and Crucifi'd compare,

Should yet be deaf against a noise
So roaring as the Publick Voice?
That speaks your virtues free and loud,
And openly in ev'ry croud,

As loud as one that sings his part
T'a Wheel-barrow or Turnip Cart,-
Or your new Nicknam'd old Invention,
To cry Green Hastings with an Engine.
(As if the vehemence had stun'd,

And torn your Drum-heads with the sound)
And 'cause your Folly's now no news,
But over-grown and out of use.

Persuade your self 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 Morter,

Can teach you wholesome Sense, and Nurture?
But (like a Reprobate) what course

S'ever'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 Mungrel-Curs,
Put you into a way, at least,
To make your self a better Beast?
Can all your critical Intrigues
Of trying sound from rotten Eggs;
Your several Newfound Remedies,
Of curing Wounds, and Scabs in Trees;
Your Arts of Fluxing them from Claps,
And Purging their infected Saps,
Recov'ring Shankers, Chrystallines,
And Nodes and Botches in their Rindes,
Have no effect to operate

Upon that duller Block, your Pate,