If it be nonsense, false, or mystic, Or not intelligible, or sophistic?
'Tis not antiquity, nor author,
Made mountains with our tubes appcar,
And cattle grazing on them there?"
Quoth Hudibras, "You lie so ope,
That makes truth Truth, although Time's daughter; That I, without a telescope,
'Twas he that put her in the pit,
Before he pull'd her out of it;
And as he eats his sons, just so
He feeds upon his daughters too.
Nor does it follow, 'cause a herald
Can make a gentleman, scarce a year old,
To be descended of a race
Of ancient kings in a small space,
That we should all opinions hold
Authentic, that we can make old."
Quoth Sidrophel, "It is no part
Of prudence to cry down an art,
And what it may perform deny,
Because you understand not why;
(As Averrhois play'd but a mean trick,
To damn our whole art for eccentric)
For who knows all that knowledge contains?
Men dwell not on the tops of mountains,
But on their sides, or risings, seat;
So 'tis with knowledge's vast height.
Do not the histories of all ages
Relate miraculous presages
Of strange turns, in the world's affairs,
Foreseen by' astrologers, soothsayers,
Chaldeans, learn'd Genethliacs,
And some that have writ almanacs?
The Median emperor dreamt his daughter
Had pist all Asia under water,
And that a vine, sprung from her haunches,
O'erspread his empire with its branches;
And did not soothsayers expound it,
As after by th' event he found it?
When Casar in the senate fell,
Did not the Sun eclips'd foretel,
And, in resentment of his slaughter,
Look'd pale for almost a year after?
Augustus having, by' oversight,
Put on his left shoe 'fore his right,
Had like to have been slain that day,
By soldiers mutin'ing for pay.
Are there not myriads of this sort,
Which stories of all times report?
Is it not ominous in all countries,
When crows and ravens croak upon trees?
The Roman senate, when within
The city walls an owl was seen,
Did cause their clergy, with lustrations,
(Our synod calls humiliations)
The round-fac'd prodigy t' avert
From doing town or country hurt.
And if an owl have so much power,
Why should not planets have much more,
That in a region far above
Inferior fowls of the air move,
And should see further, and foreknow
More than their augury below?
Though that once serv'd the polity
Of mighty states to govern by;
And this is what we take in hand
By powerful Art to understand;
Which, how we have perform'd, all ages
Can speak th' events of our presages.
Have we not lately, in the Moon,
Found a new world, to th' old unknown?
Discover'd sea and land, Columbus
And Magellan could never compass?
Can find your tricks out, and descry Where you tell truth, and where you lie : For Anaxagoras, long agone,
Saw hills, as well as you, i' th' Moon,
And held the Sun was but a piece
Of red-hot iron as big as Greece;
Believ'd the Heavens were made of stone,
Because the Sun had voided one;
And, rather than he would recant
Th' opinion, suffer'd banishment.
"But what, alas! is it to us,
Whether i' th' Moon men thus or thus
Do eat their porridge, cut their corns,
Or whether they have tails or horns?
What trade from thence can you advance,
But what we nearer have from France ?
What can our travellers bring home,
That is not to be learnt at Rome?
What politics, or strange opinions,
That are not in our own dominions?
What science can be brought from thence,
In which we do not here commence ?
What revelations, or religions,
That are not in our native regions?
Are sweating lanterns, or screen-fans,
Made better there than they're in France?
Or do they teach to sing and play
O' th' guitar there a newer way?
Can they make plays there, that shall fit
The public humour with less wit?
Write wittier dances, quainter shows,
Or fight with more ingenious blows?
Or does the man i' th' Moon look big,
And wear a huger periwig?
Show in his gait, or face, more tricks
Than our own native lunatics?
But if w' outdo him here at home,
What good of your design can' come?
As wind, i' th' hypocondres pent,
Is but a blast if downward sent,
But if it upward chance to fly,
Becomes new-light and prophecy,
So when your speculations tend
Above their just and useful end,
Although they promise strange and great
Discoveries of things far fet,
They are but idle dreams and fancies,
And savour strongly of the ganzas.
Tell me but what's the natural cause,
Why on a sign no painter draws
The full Moon ever, but the half?
Resolve that with your Jacob's staff;
Or why wolves raise a hubbub at her,
And dogs howl when she shines in water?
And I shall freely give my vote,
You may know something more remote."
At this deep Sidrophel look'd wise,
And, staring round with owl-like eyes,
He put his face into a posture
Of sapience, and began to bluster;
For, having three times shook his head
To stir his wit up, thus he said:
"Art has no mortal enemies
Next Ignorance, but owls and geese;
Those cousecrated geese in orders,
That to the Capitol were warders,
And being then upon patrol,
With noise alone beat off the Gaul;
Or those Athenian sceptic owls,
That will not credit their own souls,
Or any science understand,
Beyond the reach of eye or hand,
But, measuring all things by their own
Knowledge, hold nothing 's to be known;
Those wholesale critics, that in coffee-
Houses cry down all philosophy,
And will not know upon what ground
In Nature we our doctrine found,
Although with pregnant evidence
We can demonstrate it to sense,
As I just now have done to you,
Foretelling what you came to know.
Were the stars only made to light
Robbers and burglarers by night?
To wait on drunkards, thieves, gold-finders,
And lovers solacing behind doors,
Or giving one another pledges
Of matrimony under hedges?
Or witches simpling, and on gibbets
Cutting from malefactors snippets?
Or from the pillory tips of ears
Of rebel-saints and perjurers?
Only to stand by, and look on,
But not know what is said or done?
Is there a constellation there,
That was not born and bred up here;
And therefore cannot be to learn
In any inferior concern?
Were they not, during all their lives,
Most of them pirates, whores, and thieves?
And is it like they have not still
In their old practices some skill?
Is there a planet that by birth
Does not derive its house from Earth;
And therefore probably must know
What is and hath been done below?
Who made the Balance, or whence came
The Bull, the Lion, and the Ram?
Did not we here the Argo rig,
Make Berenice's periwig?
Whose livery does the Coachman wear?
Or who made Cassiopeia's chair?
And therefore, as they came from hence,
With us may hold intelligence.
Plato deny'd the world can be
Govern'd without geometry,
(For money being the common scale
Of things, by measure, weight, and tale,
In all th' affairs of church and state,
'Tis both the balance and the weight)
Then much less can it be without
Divine Astrology made out;
That puts the other down in worth,
As far as Heaven 's above the Earth."
"These reasons," quoth the knight, "I grant Are something more significant Than any that the learned use Upon this subject to produce: And yet they're far from satifactory, T establish and keep up your factory. Th' Egyptians say, the Sun has twice Shifted his setting and his rise; Twice has he risen in the west, As many times set in the east; But whether that be true or no, The Devil any of you know.
Some hold the Heavens, like a top,
Are kept by circulation up,
And, were 't not for their wheeling round,
They'd instantly fall to the ground;
As sage Empedocles of old,
And from him modern authors, hold.
Plato believ'd the Sun and Moon
Below all other planets run.
Some Mercury, some Venus, seat
Above the Sun himself in height.
The learned Scaliger complain'd
'Gainst what Copernicus maintain'd,
That, in twelve hundred years and odd,
The Sun had left its ancient road,
And nearer to the Earth is come,
'Bove fifty thousand miles from home;
Swore 'twas a most notorious flam,
And he that had so little shame
To vent such fopperies abroad,
Deserv'd to have his rump well claw'd;
Which monsieur Bodin hearing, swore
That he deserv'd the rod much more,
That durst upon a truth give doom,
He knew less than the pope of Rome.
Cardan believ'd great states depend
Upon the tip o' th' Bear's-tail's end,
That, as she whisk'd it towards the Sun,
Strow'd mighty empires up and down;
Which others say must needs be false,
Because your true bears have no tails.
Some say the Zodiac constellations
Have long since chang'd their antique stations
Above a sign, and prove the same
In Taurus now, once in the Ram;
Affirm'd the Trigons chopp'd and chang'd,
The watery with the fiery rang'd;
Then how can their effects still hold
To be the same they were of old?
This, though the art were true, would make
Our modern soothsayers mistake;
And is one cause they tell more lies,
In figures and nativities,
Than th' old Chaldean conjurers,
In so many hundred thousand years;
Beside their nonsense in translating,
For want of Accidence and Latin,
Like Idus, and Calendæ, Englisht
The quarter-days, by skilful linguist;
And yet, with canting, sleight, and cheat,
'Twill serve their turn to do the feat;
Make fools believe in their foreseeing
Of things before they are in being;
To swallow gudgeons ere they 're catch'd,
And count their chickens ere they 're hatch'd;
Make them the constellations prompt,
And give them back their own accompt;
But still the best to him that gives
The best price for 't, or best believes.
Some towns, some cities, some, for brevity,
Have cast the versal world's nativity,
And made the infant-stars confess,
Like fools or children, what they please.
Some calculate the hidden fates
Of monkeys, puppy-dogs, and cats;
Some running-nags, and fighting-cocks ;
Some love, trade, law-suits, and the pox:
Some take a measure of the lives
Of fathers, mothers, husbands, wives;
Make opposition, trine, and quartile,
Tell who is barren and who fertile;
As if the planets' first aspect
The tender infant did infect
In soul and body, and instil
All future good and future ill;
Which in their dark fatal'ties lurking,
At destin'd periods fall a-working,
And break out, like the hidden seeds
Of long diseases, into deeds,
In friendships, enmities, and strife,
And all th' emergencies of life:
No sooner does he peep into
The world, but he has done his do,
Catch'd all discases, took all physic,
That cures or kills a man that is sick:
Marry'd his punctual dose of wives,
Is cuckolded, and breaks, or thrives.
There's but the twinkling of a star
Between a man of peace and war;
A thief and justice, fool and knave,
A huffing officer and a slave ;
A crafty lawyer and pick-pocket,
A great philosopher and a blockhead;
A formal preacher and a player,
A learn'd physician and manslayer:
As if men from the stars did suck
Old-age, diseases, and ill-luck,
Wit, folly, honour, virtue, vice,
Trade, travel, women, claps, and dice,
And draw, with the first air they breathe,
Battle and murder, sudden death.
Are not these fine commodities
To be imported from the skies,
And vended here among the rabble,
For staple goods and warrantable?
Like money by the Druids borrow'd,
In th' other world to be restored."
Quoth Sidrophel, "To let you know
You wrong the art, and artists too,
Since arguments are lost on those
That do our principles oppose,
I will (although I've done 't before)
Demonstrate to your sense once more,
And draw a figure that shall tell you
What you, perhaps, forget befell you,
By way of horary inspection,
Which some account our worst erection."
With that he circles draws, and squares,
With cyphers, astral characters,
Then looks them o'er to understand them,
Although set down hab-nab, at random.
Quoth he, "This scheme of th' Heavens set,
Discovers how in fight you met,
At Kingston, with a May-pole idol,
And that y' were bang'd both back and side well;
And, though you overcame the bear,
The dogs beat you at Brentford fair;
Where sturdy butchers broke your noddle,
And handled you like a fop-doodle."
Quoth Hudibras, "I now perceive
You are no conjurer, by your leave:
That paltry story is untrue,
And forg'd to cheat such gulls as you."
And what you lost I can produce,
If you deny it, here i' th' house."
Quoth Hudibras, "I do believe;
That argument 's demonstrative;
Ralpho, bear witness, and go fetch us
A constable to seize the wretches;
For though they're both false knaves and cheats,
Impostors, jugglers, counterfeits,
I'll make them serve for perpendiculars,
As true as e'er were us'd by bricklayers.
They're guilty, by their own confessions,
Of felony; and at the sessions,
Upon the bench, I will so handle them,
That the vibration of this pendulum
Shall make all tailor's yards of one
Unanimous opinion;
A thing he long has vapour'd of,
But now shall make it out by proof."
Quoth Sidrophel, "I do not doubt
To find friends that will bear me out;
Nor have I hazarded my art,
And neck, so long on the state's part,
To be expos'd, i' th' end, to suffer
By such a braggadocio huffer."
"Huffer!" quoth Hudibras, "this sword
Shall down thy false throat cram that word.
Ralpho, make haste, and call an officer,
To apprehend this Stygian sophister;
Meanwhile I'll hold them at a bay,
Lest he and Whachum run away."
But Sidrophel, who, from th' aspect
Of Hudibras, did now erect
A figure worse portending far
Than that of most malignant star,
Believ'd it now the fittest moment
To shun the danger that might come on 't,
While Hudibras was all alone,
And he and Whachum, two to one.
This being resolv'd, he spy'd, by chance,
Behind the door, an iron lance,
That many a sturdy limb had gor'd,
And legs, and loins, and shoulders bor'd;
He snatch'd it up, and made a pass,
To make his way through Hudibras.
Whachum had got a fire-fork,
With which he vow'd to do his work;
But Hudibras was well prepar'd,
And stoutly stood upon his guard:
He put by Sidrophello's thrust,
And in right manfully he rusht;
The weapon from his gripe he wrung,
And laid him on the earth along.
Whachum his sea-coal prong threw by,
And basely turn'd his back to fly;
But Hudibras gave him a twitch,
As quick as lightning, in the breech,
Just in the place where Honour 's lodg'd,
As wise philosophers have judg'd,
Because a kick in that place more
Hurts Honour, than deep wounds before.
Quoth Hudibras, "The stars determine
You are my prisoners, base vermin:
"Not true!" quoth he; "howe'er you vapour, Could they not tell you so, as well
I can what I affirm make appear;
Whachum shall justify it t' your face,
And prove he was upon the place:
He play'd the saltinbancho's part,.
Transform'd t' a Frenchman by my art;
He stole your cloak, and pick'd your pocket,
Chows'd and caldes'd ye like a blockhead;
As what I came to know foretel?
By this what cheats you are we find,
That in your own concerns are blind.
Your lives are now at my dispose,
To be redeem'd by fine or blows:
But who his honour would defile,
To take, or sell, two lives so vile?
I'll give you quarter; but your pillage,
The conquering warrior's crop and tillage,
Which with his sword he reaps and ploughs,
That's mine, the law of arms allows."
This said in haste, in haste he fell
To rummaging of Sidrophel.
First he expounded both his pockets,
And found a watch, with rings and lockets,
Which had been left with him t' erect
A figure for, and so detect;
A copper-plate, with almanacs
Engrav'd upon 't, with other knacks
Of Booker's, Lilly's, Sarah Jimmers' 12,
And blank-schemes to discover nimmers;
A moon-dial, with Napier's bones,
And several constellation stones,
Engrav'd in planetary hours,
That over mortals had strange powers
To make them thrive in law or trade,
And stab or poison to evade;
In wit or wisdom to improve,
And be victorious in love.
Whachum had neither cross nor pile,
His plunder was not worth the while;
All which the conqueror did discompt,
To pay for curing of his rump.
But Sidrophel, as full of tricks
As Rota-men of politics,
Straight cast about to over-reach
Th' unwary conqueror with a fetch,
And make him glad, at least, to quit
His victory, and fly the pit,
Before the secular prince of darkness
Arriv'd to seize upon his carcass :
And as a fox, with hot pursuit
Chas'd through a warren, casts about
To save his credit, and among
Dead vermin on a gallows hung,
And while the dogs run underneath,
Escap'd (by counterfeiting death)
Not out of cunning, but a train
Of atoms justling in his brain,
As learn'd philosophers give out;
So Sidrophello cast about,
And fell to 's wonted trade again,
To feign himself in earnest slain:
First stretch'd out one leg, then another,
And, seeming in his breast to smother
A broken sigh; quoth he, "Where am I?
Alive, or dead? or which way came I
Through so immense a space so soon?
But now I thought myself i' th' Moon,
And that a monster, with huge whiskers,
More formidable than a Switzer's,
My body through and through had drill'd,
And Whachum by my side had kill'd;
Had cross-examin'd both our hose,
And plunder'd all we had to lose :
Look, there he is! I see him now,
And feel the place I am run through:
12 John Booker was born in Manchester, and was a famous astrologer in the time of the Civil wars. He was a great acquaintance of Lilly's; and so was this Sarah Jimmers, whom Lilly calls Sarah Shelhorn, a great speculatrix. He owns he was very familiar with her (quod nota;) so that it is no wonder that the knight found several of their knick-knacks in Sidrophel's cabinet.
And there lies Whachum by my side
Stone dead, and in his own blood dy'd.
Oh! oh!"--With that he fetch'd a groan,
And fell again into a swoon,
Shut both his eyes, and stopt his breath,
And to the life out-acted 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 tythe-pigs, as pagan,
And set at nought their cheese and bacon;
Rail'd at their covenant, and jeer'd
Their reverend parsons, to my beard;
For all which scandals to be quit
At once, this juncture falls out it.
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 ab de
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 danger, fears, and foes behind,
And beat, at least three lengths, the wind.
Ecce iterum Crispinus.......
WELL, Sidrophel, though 'tis in vain
To tamper with your crazy brain,
This Epistle was published ten years after the Third Canto of this Second Part, to which it is now annexed, namely, in the year 1674; and is sad, 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
Without trepanning of your skull,
As often as the Moon's at full,
'Tis not amiss, ere ye 're giv'n o'er,
To try one desp'rate med'cine more;
For, where your case can be no worse,
The desperat'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,
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 wheel-barrow or turnip-cart,
Or your new nick'd-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,
But overgrown, and out of use,
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 several new-found remedies,
Of curing wounds and scabs in trees,
Your arts of fluxing them for claps,
And purging their infected saps,
Recovering shankers, crystallines,
And nodes and botches 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,
In you had virtue to renew
Not only youth, but childhood too.
Can you, 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;
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, it is said, made a great VOL VIII.
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 ye 'ave gain'd o' th' college
A quarter share (at most) of knowledge,
And brought in none, but spent repute,
Y' assume a power as absolute
To judge, and censure, and controul,
As if you were the sole sir Poll,
And saucily pretend to know
More than your dividend comes to:
You'll find the thing will not be done
With ignorance and face alone:
No, though ye 've purchas'd to your name,
In history, so great a fame;
That now your talent 's so well known
For having all belief outgrown,
That every strange prodigious tale
Is measur'd by your German scale-
By which the virtuosi try
The magnitude of every lie,
Cast up to what it does amount,
And place the bigg'st to your account;
That all those stories, that are laid
Too truly to you, and those made,
Are now still charg'd upon your score,
And lesser authors nam'd no more.
Alas! that faculty betrays
Those soonest it designs to raise ;
And all your vain renown will spoil,
As guns o'ercharg'd the more recoil;
Though he, that has but impudence,
To all things has a fair pretence;
And, put among his wants but shame,
To all the world may lay his claim:
Though you have try'd that nothing 's borne
With greater ease than public scorn,
That all affronts do still give place
To your impenetrable face;
That makes your way through all affairs,
As pigs through hedges creep with theirs:
Yet, as 'tis counterfeit and brass,
You must not think 'twill always pass;
For all impostors, when they 're known,
Are past all labour, and undone :
And all the best that can befall
An artificial natural,
Is that which madmen find, as soon
As once they're broke loose from the Moon,
And, proof against her influence,
Relapse to e'er so little sense,
To turn stark fools, and subjects fit
For sport of boys and rabble-wit.
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.
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