Sir Hudibras his paffing worth,
The manner how he fally'd forth;
His arms and equipage are shown;
His horfe's virtues and his own.
Th' adventure of the Bear and Fiddle
Is fung, but breaks off in the middle.
WHEN civil dudgeon first grew high,
And men fell out they knew not why; When hard words, jealoufies, and fears, Set folks together by the ears,
And made them fight, like mad or drunk, For Dame Religion as for punk;
Whofe honefty they all durft swear for,
Though not a man of them knew wherefore:
When gofpel-trumpeter, furrounded
With long ear'd rout, to battle founded,
And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic,
Was beat with fift, instead of a stick:
Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling,
And out he rode a-colonelling.
A wight he was, whofe very fight wou'd
Intitle him, Mirrour of knighthood;
That never bow'd his ftubborn knee
To any thing but chivalry;
Nor put up blow, but that which laid
Right Worshipful on fhoulder-blade:
Chief of domeftic knights and errant,
Either for chartel or for warrant :
Great on the bench, great in the faddle,
That could as well bind o'er as fwaddle:
Mighty he was at both of thefe,
And ftyl'd of war, as well as peace.
(So fome rats, of amphibious nature,
Are either for the land or water.)
But here our authors make a doubt,
Whether he were more wife or ftout.
Some hold the one, and fome the other:
But howfoe'er they make a pother,
The diff'rence was fo fmall, his brain
Outweigh'd his rage but half a grain;
Which made fome take him for a tool
That knaves do work with, call'd a fool.
For't has been held by many, that
As Montaigne, playing with his cat,
Complains the thought him but an ass,
Much more fhe 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 fuch.
We grant, although he had much wit,
H' was very fly of using it;
As being loath to wear it out,
And therefore bore it not about;
Unless on holidays, or fo,
As men their best apparel do.
Befide, 'tis known he could fpeak Greek
As naturally as pigs fqueak;
That Latin was no more difficile,
Than for a blackbird 'tis to whistle.
B'ing rich in both, he never scanted
His bounty unto fuch as wanted;
But much of either would afford
To many, that had not one word.
For Hebrew roots, although they're found
To flourish moft in barren ground,
He had fuch plenty, as fuffic'd
To make fome think him circumcis'd:
And truly fo he was, perhaps,
Not as a profelyte, but for claps.
He was in logic a great critic,
Profoundly skill'd in analytic;
He could diftinguish, and divide
A hair 'twixt fouth and fouth-weft fide;
On either which he would dispute,
Confute, change hands, and ftill confute;
He'd undertake to prove, by force
Of argument, a man's no horfe;
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 fyllogifm, 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 fpeech, or cough,
H'had hard words, ready to fhew why,
And tell what rules he did it by:
Elfe, 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 fhew't, his speech
In loftinefs of found was rich;
A Babylonish dialect,
Which learned pedants much affect:
It was a party-colour'd dress
Of patch'd and py-ball'd languages;
'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin,
Like fuftian heretofore on fatin.
It had an odd promifcuous tone,
As if h'had talk'd three parts in one;
Which made fome think, when he did gabble, Th'had heard three labourers of Babel;
A. leafh of languages at once.
This he as volubly would vent
As if his stock would ne'er be spent ;
And truly, to fupport that charge,
He had fupplies as vast and large:
For he could coin or counterfeit
New words, with little or no wit;
Words fo debas'd and hard, no stone
Was hard enough to touch them on :
And when with hafty noise he spoke 'em,
The ignorant for current took 'em;
That had the orator, who once
Did fill his mouth with pebble-stones
When he harangu'd, but known his phrafe,
He would have us'd no other ways.
In mathematics he was greater
Than Tycho Brahe, or Erra Pater:
For he, by geometric scale
Could take the fize of pots of ale;
Refolve by fines and tangents, straight,
If bread or butter wanted weight;
And wifely tell what hour o'th'day
The clock does strike, by algebra.
Befide, he was a shroud philofopher,
And had read ev'ry text and glofs over;
Whate'er the crabbed'ft author hath,
He understood b'implicit faith :
Whatever sceptic could inquire for,
For ev'ry why he had a wherefore:
|