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 outacted 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
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 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 palfry
To get from th' enemy and Ralph free;
Left dangers, fears, and foes behind,
And beat at least three lengths the wind.
OF HUDIBRAS TO SIDROPHEL.
Ecce iterum Crispinus....
WELL, 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 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,
*This Epistle was published ten years after the Third Canto of the Second Part, to which it is now annexed, namely, in the year 1674; and is said, in a Key to a Burlesque Poem of Mr. Butler's, published 1706, p. 13, to have been occasioned by Sir Paul Neal, a conceited virtuoso, and member of the Royal Society, who constantly affirmed that Mr. Butler was not the author of Hudibras, which gave rise to this Epistle; and by some he has been taken for the real Sidrophel of the poem. This was the gentleman, who, I am told, made a great discovery of an elephant in the moon, which, upon examination, proved to be no other than a mouse which had mistaken its way, and got into his telescope. See The Elephant in the Moon,' vol. ii.
Should yet be deaf against a noise
So roaring as the public voice?
That speaks your virtues free and loud,
And openly in every crowd,
As loud as one that sings his part
T'a wheelbarrow 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 torn your drum-heads with the sound);
And 'cause your folly 's now no news,
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 men's 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 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 them 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 sev'ral new-found remedies
Of curing wounds and scabs in trees;
Your arts of fluxing them for claps,
And purging their infected saps;
Recov'ring shankers, chrystallines,
And nodes and blotches 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,
you had virtue to renew
Not only youth but childhood too.
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,
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