Of each he had an equal spice,
And was in all fo very nice,
That, to speak truth, th' account it loft,
In which he did excel the most.
When he forfook the peaceful dwelling,
And out he went a colonelling,
Strange hopes and fears poffeft the nation,
How he could manage that vocation,
Until he fhew'd it to a wonder,
How nobly he could fight and plunder.
At preaching, too, he was a dab,
More exquifite by far than Squab;
He could fetch ufes, and infer,
Without the help of metaphor,
From any Scripture text, howe'er
Remote it from the purpose were;
And with his fift, instead of a stick,
Beat pulpit, drum ecclefiaftick,
Till he made all the audience weep,
Excepting thofe that fell asleep.
Then at the bar he was right able,
And could bind o'er as well as fwaddle;
And famous, too, at petty feffions,
'Gain't thieves and whores, for long digreffions.
He could moft learnedly determine
To Bridewell, or the ftocks, the vermin.
For his addrefs and way of living,
All his behaviour, was fo moving,
That, let the dame be ne'er fo chafte,
As people fay, below the waift,
If Hudibras but once come at her,
He'd quickly make her chaps to water:
Then for his equipage and fhape,
On veftals they'd commit a rape;
Which often, as the story fays,
Have made the ladies weep both ways.
Ill has he read, that never heard
How he with Widow Tomson far'd,
And what hard conflict was between
Our Knight and that infulting quean.
Sure captive knight ne'er took more pains,
For rhymes for his melodious ftrains,
Nor beat his brains, or made more faces,
To get into a jilt's good graces,
Than did Sir Hudibras to get
Nor will I for the trapes atone;
Indeed to guess I'am not able,
What made her thus inexorable,
Unless she did not like his wit,
Or, what is worse, his perquifite.
Howe'er it was, the wound she gave
The Knight, he carry'd to his grave :
Vile harlot to destroy a knight,
That could both plead, and pray, and fight.
Oh! cruel, base, inhuman drab,
To give him fuch a mortal stab,
That made him pine away and moulder,
As though that he had been no foldier:
Could't thou find no one elfe to kill,
Thou inftrument of death and hell!
But Hudibras, who stood the Bears
So oft against the Cavaliers,
And in the very heat of war
Took ftout Crowdero prisoner;
And did fuch wonders all along,
That far exceed both pen and tongue?
If he had been in battle flain,
We 'ad had lefs reafon to complain;
But to be murder'd by a whore,
Was ever knight fo ferv'd before?
But, fince he 's gone, all we can fay,
He chanc'd to die a lingering way;
If he had liv'd a longer date,
He might, perhaps, have met a fate
More violent, and fitting for
A knight fo fam'd in Civil war.
To fum up all-from love and danger
He's now (O happy Knight!) a stranger;
And, if a Muse can aught foretell,
His fame shall fill a chronicle,
And he in after-ages be
Of errant knights the epitome.
[NDER this stone refts Hudibras,
A Knight as errant as e'er was;
The controverfy only lies,
Whether he was more ftout than wife;
Nor can we here pretend to fay,
Whether he best could fight or pray ;
So, till those questions are decided,
His virtues must rest undivided.
Full oft he fuffer'd bangs and drubs,
And full as oft took pains in tubs;
Of which the most that can be faid,
He pray'd and fought, and fought and pray'd.
As for his perfonage and shape,
Among the reft we'll let them fcape;
Nor do we, as things stand, think fit
This ftone fhould meddle with his wit.
One thing, 'tis true, we ought to tell,
He liv'd and dy'd a colonel;
And for the Good old Caufe ftood buff,
'Gainft many a bitter kick and cuff.
But, fince his Worship 's dead and gone,
And mouldering lies beneath this stone,
The Reader is defir'd to look,
For his atchievements in his Book ;
Which will preserve of Knight the Tale,
Till Time and Death itself shall fail.
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