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As wine, that with its own weight runs, is best, And in the miserablest of distress
And counted much more noble than the prest; Improves attempts as desperate with success;
So is that poetry whose generous strains

Success, that owns and justifies all quarrels,
Flow without servile study, art, or pains.

And vindicates deserts of hemp with laurels;

Or, but miscarrying in the bold attempt,
Some call it fury, some a Muse,

Turns wreaths of laurel back again to hemp.
That, as possessing Devils use,
Haunts and forsakes a man by fits,

The people have as much a negative voice
And when he 's in, he 's out of 's wits.

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,
As if there were no more to do,

And turn the cards another way.
To make a poet excellent,
But only want and discontent.

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,
And those that have writ best, had they been | That neither th' other can abide,

But too much reason on each side?
Had ne'er been clapp'd with a poetic itch;
Had lov'd their ease too well to take the pains AUTHORITY is a disease and cure,
To undergo that drudgery of brains ;

Which men can neither want nor well endure.
But, being for all other trades uufit,
Only to avoid being idle, set up wit.

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,
And freely give their friends their voices,

To get more money from the capital.
Are not confin'd to what is true;
That 's not to give, but pay a due:

All that which Law and Equity mieralls
For praise, that 's due, does give no more

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,
Of difficulter wit and sense;

The old wife, Law and Justice, will not trot.
And seem more learnedish than those
That at a greater charge compose.

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
On even terms, of all the gods;

When 'tis to judge on its own side.
Then Cæsar he 's nicknam'd, as duly as
He that in Rome was christen’d Julius,

The law can take a purse in open court,
And was address'd too by a crow,

Whilst it condemns a less delinquent for 't.
As pertinently, long ago;
And, as wit goes by colleges,

Who can deserve, for breaking of the laws,
As well as standing and degrees,

A greater penance than an honest cause
He still writes better than the rest,
That 's of the house that 's counted best.

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
To turn and wind them any way they please. Their fresh green liveries all the year:
The statute law 's their scripture, and reports So, when the glorions season 's gone
The ancient reverend fathers of their courts; With great men, and hard times come on,
Records their general councils; and decisions The great'st calamities oppress
Of judges on the bench their sole traditions, The greatest still, and spare the less.
For which, like catholics, they 've greater awe,
As th' arbitrary and unwritten law,

As when a greedy raven sees
And strive perpetually to make the standard A sheep entangled by the fleece,
Of right between the tenant and the landlord; With hasty cruelly he flies
And, when two cases at a trial meet,

T attack him, and pick out his eyes;
That, like indentures, jump exactly fit,

So do those vultures use, that keep
And all the points, like chequer-tallies, suit, Poor prisoners fast like silly sheep,
The court directs the obstivat'st dispute ;

As greedily to prey on all
There's no decorum us'd of time, nor place, That in their ravenous clutches fall :
Nor quality, nor person, in the case.

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,
Too much or too little wit

Are found most fit in being worst.
Do only render th' owners fit
For nothing, but to be undone

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.
By those that are suspected least,
And greatest finesse brought about

The Roman mufti, with his triple crown,
By engines most unlike to do it.

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.
What else does bistory use to tell us,
But tales of subjects being rebellious;

A JUBILEE is but a spiritual fair,
The rain perfidiousness of lords,

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;
Their own selves first, next those who trustthem? For dealing both for Judas and th' high-priest,

He makes a plentifuller trade of Christ.
Because a feeble limb 's carest,
And more indulg'd than all the rest,

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,
As, at th' approach of winter, all

Is but to put the soul on a clean shift.
The leaves of great trees use to fall,
And leave thern naked to engage

An ass will with his long ears fray
With storms and tempests when they rage;

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
Are us'd in selliug than in buying ;
But in the great, unjuster dealing
Is us'd in buying than in selling.

Opintators naturally differ
From other men; as wooden legs are stiffer
Than those of pliant joints, to yield and bow,
Which way soe'er they are design'd to go.

All smatterers are more brisk and pert
Than those that understand an art;
As little sparkles shine more bright
Than glowing coals, that give them light.

NAVIGATION, that withstood
The mortal fury of the Flood,
And prov'd the oply means to save
All earthly creatures from the wave,
Has, for it, taught the sea and wind
To lay a tribute on mankind,
That, by degrees, has swallow'd more
Than all it drown'd at once before.

Law does not put the least restraint
Upon our freedom, but maintain 't;
Or, if it does, 'tis for our good,
To give us freer latitude:
For wholesome laws preserve us free,
By stinting of our liberty.

The world has long endeavour'd to waduce
Those things to practice that are of no use;
And strives to practise things of speculation,
And bring the practical to contemplation;
And by that errour renders both in vain,
By forcing Nature's course against the grain.

The prince of Syracuse, whosè destin'd fate
It was to keep a school and rule a state,
Found, that his sceptre never was so aw'd,
As when it was translated to a rod;
And that his subjects ne'er were so obedient,
As wheq he was inaugurated pedant:
For to instruct is greater than to rule,
And no command 's so imperious as a school

As he, whose destiny does prove
To dangle in the air above,
Does lose his life for want of air,
That only fell to be his share;
So he, whom Fate at once design'd
To plenty and a wretched mind,
Is but condemn'd t'a rich distress,
And starves with niggardly excess.

In all the world there is no vice
Less prone t'excess than avarice;
It neither cares for food nor clothing :
Nature 's content with little, that with nothing.

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
Their own parts at an equal estimate,
Than cast up fractions, in th' account of Heaven,
Of time and motion, and adjust them even;
For modest persons never had a true
Particular of all that is their due.

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,
That Nature never meant, to cure the sick,
Unless by death, the singular receipt,
To root out all diseases by the great :
For universals deal in no one part
Of Nature, nor particulars of Art;
And therefore that French quack, that set up physic,
Callid bis receipt a general specific.
For, though in mortal poisons every one
Is mortal universally alone,
Yet Nature never made an antidote
To cure them all as easy as they 're got;
Much less, among so many variations
Of different maladies and complications,
Make all the contrarieties in Nature
Submit themselves t' an equal moderator.

A Convert 's but a fly, that turns about,
After his head 's pulld off, to find it out.

As he that makes his mark is understood
To write his name, and 'tis in law as good;
So he, that cannot write one word of sense,
Believes he has as legal a pretence
To scribble what he does not understand,
As idiots have a title to their land.

WERE Tolly now alive, he'd be to seek
In all our Latin terms of art and Greek;
Would never understand one word of sense
The most irrefragable schoolman means :
As if the schools design'd their terms of art
Not to advance a science, but divert;
As Hocus Pocus conjures, to amuse
The rabble from observing what he does.

All mankind is but a rabble,
As silly and unreasonable
As those that, crowding in the street,
To see a show or monster, meet ;
Of whom no one is in the right,
Yet all fall out about the sight;
And, when they chance t' agree, the choice is
Still in the most and worst of vices;
And all the reasons that prevail
Are measur'd, not by weight, but tale

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,
The names of all their moods and figures fit:

Made it break out again.
For a logician 's one that has been broke
To ride and pace his reason by the book,
And by their rules, and precepts, and examples,

To put his wits into a kind of trammels.

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.
A natural sign of weakness, as an ant
Is more laborious than an elephant ;
And children are more busy at their play,
Than those that wisely'st pass their time away.

ALL the inventions that the world contains, THE jolly members of a toping club,
Were not by reason first found out, nor brains ; Like pipe-staves, are but hoop'd into a tub,
But pass for theirs who had the luck to light And in a close confederacy link,
Upon them by mistake or oversight.

For nothing else but only to hold drink.


In days of yore, when knight or squire
As inisers their own laws enjoin,

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
But a mere livelihood alone.

How this renowned champion fell,
But must reflect, alas ! alas!
All human glory fades like grass,
And that the strongest martial feats

Of errant knights are all but cheats!
DESCRIPTION OF HOLLAND. Witness our knight, who sure has done

More valiant actions, ten to one,
A COUNTRY that draws fifty foot of water,

Than of More-Hall the mighty More, la which men live as in the hold of Nature,

Or him that made the Dragon roar;
And, when the sea does in upon them break,

Has knock'd more men and women down
And drowns a province, does but spring a leak; Than Bevis of Southampton town,
That always ply the pump, and never think
They can be safe, but at the rate they stink;

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
Beat pulpit, drum ecclesiastic,

Of errant knights th' epitome.
Till he made all the audience weep,
Excepting those that fell asleep.
Then at the bar he was right able,
And could bind o'er as well as swaddle;
And famous, too, at petty sessions,

'Gainst thieves and whores, for long digressions,
He could most learnedly determine

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.

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