The one believes all madmen to be faints,

Which th' other cries him down for and abhors,

And yet in madness all devotion plants,

230

And where he differs moft concurs;

Both equally exact and just

In perjury and breach of truft;

So like in all things, that one Brother

Is but a counterpart of th' other;

And both unanimously dama

And hate (like two that play one game)

Each other for it, while they strive to do the fame.

XII.

Both equally design to raile

Their churches by the felf-fame ways;

With war and ruin to affert

Their doctrine, and with fword and fire convert;

235

240

To preach the gospel with a drum,

And for convincing overcome:

And tho' in worshipping of God all blood

245

Was by his own laws difallow'd,

Both hold no holy rites to be fo good,

And both to propagate the breed
Of their own Saints one way proceed;
For luft and rapes in war repair as faft
As fury and destruction wafte:
Both equally allow all crimes

Hence 't is that holy wars have ever been

The horrid'& fcenes of blood and fin;

From her own nature, nothing but a breed

260

For when Religion does recede

Of prodigies and hideous monfters can fucceed.

UPON MODERN CRITICKS.

A PINDARICK ODE.

I.

'Tis well that equal Heav'n has plac'd Thofe-joys above that no reward

The juft and virtuous are prepar'd,'

Beyond their reach, until their pains are paft;
Elie men would rather venture to poffefs
By force, than earn their happiness;
And only take the dev'ls advice,
As Adam did, how fooneft to be wife,
Tho' at th' expenfe of Paradife:
For, as fome fay, to fight is but a base
Mechanick handiwork, and far below
A gen'rous fpirit t' undergo;

So 'tis to take the pains to know,

Which fome, with only confidence and face,
More eafily and ably do;

For daring nonfente feldom fails to hit,

Like scatter'd shot, and pass with fome for wit.
Who would not rather make himself a judge,
And boldly ufurp the chair,

Than with dull induftry and care

Endure to ftudy, think, and drudge,

20

Of Nature and their ftars, a right

For that which he much fooner may advance
With obftinate and pertinacious ignorance?

II.

For all men challenge, tho' in fpight

To cenfure, judge, and know,

25

Tho' fhe can only order who

Shall be, and who fhall ne'er be wife:

Then why fhould thofe whom she denies

Her favour and good graces too

30

Not ftrive to take opinion by furprise,

And ravish what it were in vain to woo?

For he that defp'rately affumes

The cenfure of all wits and arts,

Tho' without judgment, fkill, and parts,
Only to startle and amufe,

35

And mafk his ignorance (as Indians use
With gaudy-colour'd plumes

Their homely nether parts t' adorn)

Can never fail to captive fome

49

That will fubmit to his oraculous doom,

And rev'rence what they ought to icorn,
Admire his sturdy confidence

For folid judgment and deep fense

And credit purchas'd without pains or wit,
Like ftolen pleasures, ought to be most sweet.

45

50

Of Perfian princes, by one horfe's voice:
For thofe fine pageants which fome raise,
Of falfe and difproportion'd praife,
T'enable whom they pleafe t' appear,
And pafs for what they never were,
In private only b'ing but nam'd,
Their modefty must be afham'd,
And not endure to hear,

And yet may be divulg'd and fam'd,
And own'd in publick every where:
So vain fome authors, are to boast
Their want of ingenuity, and club
Their affidavit wits, to dub

Each other but a Knight o' the Poft,

As falfe as fuborn'd perjurers,

55

60

05

That vouch away all right they have to their own ears.

May be allow'd to rail again at them,
And in his own defence

To outface reafon, wit, and fenfe,

75

And all that makes against himself condemn;
To fnarl at all things right or wrong,

Like a mad deg, that has a worm in his tongue;

Reduce all knowledge back of good and evil,
T'its firft original the devil;

And, like a fierce inquifitor of wit,

To fpare no flesh that ever spoke or writ;
Tho' to perform his task as dull,

As if he had a toaditone in his fcull,
And could produce a greater fock

Of maggots than a paftoral poet's flock.

4.

The feebleft vermine can destroy
As fure as ftouteft beafts of prey,
And only with their eyes and breath
Infect and poifon men to death;
But that more impotent buffoon

That makes it both his bus'nefs and his spert

To rail at all, is but drone

That spends his fting on what he cannot hurt;

Enjoys a kind of letchery in spight,

Like o'ergrown finners, that in whipping take delight;

Invades the reputation of all those
That have, or have it not to lofe;
And if he chance to make a difference,
'Tis always in the wrongest sense;
As rooking gamefters never lay
Upon those hands that use fair play,
But venture all their bets

Upon the flurs and cunning tricks of ablest cheats.

VI.

Nor does he vex himself much less

105

Revenges on himself the wrong

110

Which his vain malice and loofe tongue

To thofe that feel it not have done,

And whips and fpurs himself because he is outgone;

Makes idle characters and tales,

As counterfeit, unlike, and falfe,

115

As witches' pictures are of wax and clay
To those whom they would in effigy flay.
And as the devil, that has no fhape of his own,
Affects to put the ugliest on,

And leaves a ftink behind him when he 's gone,
So he that's worse than nothing rives t' appear

I' the likenefs of a wolf or bear,

To fright the weak, but when men dare

120

Encounter with him, ftinks, and vanishes to air. 124

TO THE HAPPY MEMORY OF THE

MOST RENOWNED DU-VAL.

A PINDARICK ODE.

I.

'Tis true, to compliment the dead
Is as impertinent and vain,

As 't was of old to call them back again,
Or, like the Tartars, give them wives,
With fettlements for after-lives:
For all that can be done or faid,
Tho' ere fo noble, great, and good,
By them is neither heard nor underfood.
All our fine fleights and tricks of art,
First to create, and then adore defert,
And thofe romances which we frame,
To raife ourselves, not them, a name,
In vain are fluft with ranting flatteries,

And fuch as, if they knew, they would defpife.
For as thofe times the Golden Age we call,
In which there was no gold in ufe at all,
So we plane glory and renown

Where it was ne'er deftry'd nor known,

*This Ode, which is only the genuine poem of Butler's, among the maay spurious enes fathered upon him in what is called his Remains, was published by the Author himself, under his own name, in the year 1671, in three sheets 4to; and, agreeable to this, I fad it in his own handwriting amon his man a criza, with some little addition, and a few verbal alterations, as the reader may obscive, in comparing it with the copy already printed.