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As wine, that with its own weight runs, is best, And in the miserablest of distress
Success, that owns and justifies all quarrels,
And vindicates deserts of hemp with laurels;
Or, but miscarrying in the bold attempt,
Turns wreaths of laurel back again to hemp.
The people have as much a negative voice
To hinder making war without their choice,
As kings of making laws in parliament; All writers, though of different fancies,
“ No money” is as good as “ No assent.” Do make all people in romances, That are distress'd and discontent,
When princes idly lead about, Make songs, and sing t’ an instrument,
Those of their party follow suit, And poets by their sufferings grow;
Till others trump upon their play,
And turn the cards another way.
Wuat makes all subjects discontent
Against a prince's government, It is not poetry that makes men poor ;
And princes take as great offence For few do write that were not so before ;
At subjects' disobedience,
But too much reason on each side?
Which men can neither want nor well endure.
Dame Justice puts her sword into the scales,
With which she's said to weigh out true and false, They that do write in others' praises,
With no design but, like the antique Gaul,
To get more money from the capital.
All that which Law and Equity mieralls
By th' empty idle names of True and False, To worth, than what it had before;
Is nothing else but maggots blown between But to commend, without desert,
False witnesses and falser jurymen. Requires a mastery of art,
No court allows those partial interlopers That sets a gloss on what 's amiss,
Of Law and Equity, two single paupers, And writes what should be, not what is.
T encounter hand to hand at bars, and trounce
Each other gratis in a suit at once: In foreign universities,
For one at one time, and upon free cost, is When a king 's bom, or weds, or dies,
Enough to play the knave and fool with Justice; Straight other studies are laid by,
And, when the one side bringeth custom in, And all apply to poetry :
And th' other lays out half the reckoning, Some write in Hebrew, some in Greek,
The Devil himself will rather choose to play And some, more wise, in Arabic,
At paltry small-game than sit out, they say ; T” avoid the critic, and th' expense
But when at all there's nothing to be got,
The old wife, Law and Justice, will not trot.
The law, that makes more knaves than e'er it The doctors lead, the students follow;
hung, Some call him Mars, and some Apollo,
Little considers right or wrong; Some Jupiter, and give him th' odds,
But, like authority, 's soon satisfy'd
When 'tis to judge on its own side.
The law can take a purse in open court,
Whilst it condemns a less delinquent for 't.
Who can deserve, for breaking of the laws,
A greater penance than an honest cause
All those that do but rob and steal enough,
Are punishment and court-of-justice proof, Far greater numbers have been lost by hopes And need not fear, nor be concern'd a straw, Than all the magazines of daggers, ropes,
In all the idle bugbears of the law, And other ammunitions of despair,
But confidently rob the gallows too, Were ever able to dispatch by fear.
As well as other sufferers, of their due. There's nothing our felicities endears
Old laws have not been suffer'd to be pointed, Like that which falls among our doubts and fears, "To leave the sense at large the more disjointed,
And furnish lawyers, with the greater ease, While humbler plants are found to wear
As when a greedy raven sees
T attack him, and pick out his eyes;
So do those vultures use, that keep
As greedily to prey on all
For thorns and brambles, that came in
To wait upon the curse for sin, A man of quick and active wit
And were no part o'th' first creation, For drudgery is more unfit,
But, for revenge, a new plantation, Compar'd to those of duller parts,
Are yet the fitt'st materials Than running-nags to draw in carts.
T' enclose the Earth with living walls.
So jailors, that are most accurst,
Are found most fit in being worst.
THERE needs no other charm, nor conjurer, Much easier than if they 'ad none.
To raise infernal spirits up, but fear;
That makes men pull their horns in like a snail, As those that are stark blind can trace
That's both a prisoner to itself, and jail; The nearest ways from place to place,
Draws more fantastic shapes, than in the grains And find the right way easier out,
Of knotted wood, in some men's crazy brains, Than those that hoodwink'd try to do 't;
When all the cocks they think they see, and bulls, So tricks of state are manag'd best
Are only in the insides of their sculls.
The Roman mufti, with his triple crown,
Does both the Earth, and Hell, and Heaven, own,
Beside th' imaginary territory, All the politics of the great
He lays a title to in Purgatory ; Are like the cunning of a cheat,
Declares himself an absolute free prince That lets his false dice freely run,
In his dominions, only over sins; And trusts them to themselves alone,
But as for Heaven, since it lies so far But never lets a true one stir
Above him, is but only titular, Without some fingering trick or slur;
And, like his cross-keys badge upon a tavern, And, when the gamesters doubt his play,
Has nothing there to tempt, command, or govern: Conveys his false dice safe away,
Yet, when he comes to take account, and share And leaves the true ones in the lurch,
The profit of his prostituted ware, To endure the torture of the search.
He finds his gains increase, by sin and women,
Above his richest titular duminion.
A JUBILEE is but a spiritual fair,
T'expose to sale all sorts of impious ware, And fatal breach of princes' words ;
In which his holiness buys nothing in, The sottish pride and insolence
To stock his magazines, but deadly sin, Of statesmen, and their want of sense ;
And deals in extraordinary crimes, Their treachery, that undoes, of custom,
That are pot vendible at other times;
He makes a plentifuller trade of Christ.
That spiritual pattern of the church, the ark, So frail and tender consciences
In which the ancient world did once embark, Are humour'd to do what they please;
Had ne'er a helm in 't to direct its way, When that which goes for weak and feeble Although bound through an universal sea; Is found the most incorrigible,
When all the modern church of Rome's concern To outdo all the fiends in Hell
Is nothing else but in the helm and stern. With rapine, murder, blood, and zeal.
In the church of Rome to go to shrift,
Is but to put the soul on a clean shift.
An ass will with his long ears fray
The flies, that tickle him, away; VOL VIIL.
But man delights to have his ears
Than draw it out; so 'tis in books the chief Blown maggots in by flatterers.
Of all perfections to be plain and brief. ALL wit does but divert men from the road
The man, that for his profit 's bought to obey, In which things vulgarly are understood,
Is only hir'd, on liking, to betray; And force Mistake and Ignorance to own
And, when he's bid a liberaller price, A better sense than commonly is known.
Will not be sluggish in the work, nor nice.
In little trades, more cheats and lying
Opintators naturally differ
All smatterers are more brisk and pert
NAVIGATION, that withstood
Law does not put the least restraint
The world has long endeavour'd to waduce
The prince of Syracuse, whosè destin'd fate
As he, whose destiny does prove
In all the world there is no vice
In Rome no temple was so low As that of Honour, built to show How humble honour ought to be, Though there 'twas all authority.
It is a harder thing for men to rate
Some people's fortunes, like a weft or stray, Are only gain'd by losing of their way.
The universal med'cine is a trick,
A Convert 's but a fly, that turns about,
As he that makes his mark is understood
WERE Tolly now alive, he'd be to seek
All mankind is but a rabble,
As 'tis a greater mystery, in the art of painting, to foreshorten any part
TRIPLETS UPON AVARICE...DESCRIPTION OF HOLLAND. 227 As, in all great and crowded fairs, Monsters and puppet plays are wares,
TO HIS MISTRESS Which in the less will not go off,
Do not unjustly blame Because they have not money enough
My guiltless breast, So men in princes' courts will pass,
For venturing to disclose a flame That will not in another place.
It had so long supprest. LOGICIANs use to clap a proposition,
In its own ashes it design'd As justices do criminals, in prison,
For ever to have lain; And, in as learn'd authentic nonsense, writ
But that my sighs, like blasts of wind,
Made it break out again.
TO THE SAME.
Do not mine affection slight, Trose get the least that take the greatest pains, | Your breasts have snow without, and snow within,
'Cause my locks with age are white: But most of all i'th' drudgery of brains ;
While flames of fire in your bright eyes are seen.
EPIGRAM ON A CLUB OF SOTS.
For nothing else but only to hold drink.
In days of yore, when knight or squire
By Fate were summon’d to retire,
Some menial poet still was near, To sear no pockets in the mine,
To bear them to the hemisphere, For fear they should the ore purloin;
And there among the stars to leave them, So he that toils and labours hard
Until the gods sent to relieve them: To gain, and what he gets has spar'd,
And sure our knight, whose very sight wou'd L from the use of all debarr'd.
Entitle him Mirror of Knighthood,
Should he neglected lie, and rot, And, though he can produce more spankers Stink in his grave, and be forgot, Than all the usurers and bankers,
Would have just reason to complain, Yet after more and more he hankers;
If he should chance to rise again ;
And therefore, to prevent his dudgeon, And, after all his pains are done,
In mournful doggrel thus we trudge on. Has nothing he can call his own,
Oh me! what tongue, what pen, can tell
How this renowned champion fell,
Of errant knights are all but cheats!
More valiant actions, ten to one,
Than of More-Hall the mighty More, la which men live as in the hold of Nature,
Or him that made the Dragon roar;
Has knock'd more men and women down
i Neither this elegy, nor the following epitaph, Teat live as if they had been run aground,
is to be found in The Genuine Remains of Butler, And, when they die, are cast away and drown'ds as published by Mr. Thyer. Both however having That dwell in ships, like swarms of rats, and prey frequently been reprinted in The Posthumous Works Upon the goods all nations' fleets convey;
of Samuel Butler, and as they, besides, relate to And, when their merchants are blown-up and crackt, the hero of his particular poem, there needs no Whole towns are cast away in storms, and wreckt; apology for their being thus preserved. Some That feed, like cannibals, on other fishes,
other of the posthumous poems would not have And serve their cousin-germans up in dishes : disgraced their supposed author; but, as they are A land that rides at anchor, and is moord, so positively rejected by Mr. Thyer, we have not la which they do not live, but go aboard.
ventured to admit them. N.
Or than our modern heroes can,
Hard was his fate in this, I own, To take them singly man by man.
Nor will I for the trapes atone ; No, sure, the grisly king of terrour
Indeed to guess I am not able, Has been to blame, and in an errour,
What made her thus inexorable, 'To issue his dead-warrant forth
Unless she did not like his wit, To seize a knight of so much worth,
Or, what is worse, his perquisite. Just in the nick of all his glory;
Howe'er it was, the wound she gave I tremble when I tell the story.
The knight, he carry'd to his grave: Oh! help me, help me, some kind Muse,
Vile harlot! to destroy a knight, This surly tyrant to abuse,
That could both plead, and pray, and fignt. Who, in his rage, has been so cruel
Oh! cruel, base, inhuman drab, To rob the world of such a jewel!
To give him such a mortal stab, A knight, more learned, stout, and good,
That made him pine away and moulder, Sure ne'er was made of flesh and blood :
As though that he had been no soldier: All his perfections were so rare,
Could'st thou find no one else to kill, The wit of man could not declare
Thou instrument of Death and Hell! Which single virtue, or which grace,
But Hudibras, who stood the bears Above the rest had any place,
So oft against the cavaliers, Or which he was most famous for,
And in the very heat of war The camp, the pulpit, or the bar;
Took stout Crowdero prisoner; Of each he had an equal spice,
And did such wonders all along, And was in all so very nice,
That far exceed both pen and tongue ? That, to speak truth, th' account it lost,
If he had been in battle slain, In which he did excel the most.
We 'ad had less reason to complain; When he forsook the peaceful dwelling,
But to be murder'd by a whore, And out he went a colonelling,
Was ever knight so serv'd before? Strange hopes and fears possest the nation,
But, since he's gone, all we can say, How he could manage that vocation,
He chanc'd to die a lingering way; Until he show'd it to a wonder,
If he had liv'd a longer date, How nobly he could fight and plunder.
He might, perhaps, have met a fate At preaching, too, he was a dab,
More violent, and fitting for More exquisite by far than Squab;
A knight so fam'd in civil war. He could fetch uses, and infer,
To sum up all—from love and danger Without the help of metaphor,
He 's now (O happy knight!) a stranger ; From any scripture text, howe'er
And, if a Muse can aught foretell, Remote it from the purpose were ;
His fame shall fill a chronicle, And with his fist, instead of a stick,
And he in after-ages be
Of errant knights th' epitome.
Under this stone rests Hudibras, Ty Bridewell, or the stocks, the vermin.
A knight as errant as e'er was; For bis address and way of living,
The controversy only lies, All his behaviour, was so moving,
Whether he was more stout than wise; That, let the dame be ne'er so chaste,
Nor can we here pretend to say, As people say, below the waist,
Whether he best could fight or pray; If Hudibras but once came at her,
So, till those questions are decided, He'd quickly made her chaps to water;
His virtues must rest undivided. Then for his equipage and shape,
Full oft he suffer'd bangs and drubs, On vestals they 'd commit a rape;
And full as oft took pains in tubs; Which often, as the story says,
Of which the most that can be said, Have made the ladies weep both ways.
He pray'd and fought, and fought and pray'd. III has he read, that never heard
As for his personage and shape, How he with widow Tomson far'd,
Among the rest we 'll let them 'scape; And what hard conflict was between
Nor do we, as things stand, think fit Our knight and that insulting quean.
This stone should meddle with his wit. Sure captive knight ne'er took more pains,
One thing, 'tis true, we ought to tell, Por rhymes for his melodious strains,
He liv'd and dy'd a colonel ; Nor beat his brains, or made more faces,
And for the good old cause stood buff, To get into a jilt's good graces,
'Gainst many a bitter kick and cuff. Than did sir Hudibras to get
But, since his worship's dead and gone, Into this subtle gipsy's net ;
And mouldering lies beneath this stone, Who, after all her high pretence
The reader is desir'd to look, To modesty and innocence,
For his achievements in his book ; Was thought by most to be a woman
Which will preserve of knight the tale, That to all other knights was common.
Till Time and Death itself shall fail.