'Tis but an ague that 's reverst,
Whose hot fit takes the patient first,
That after burns with cold as much,
As iron in Greenland does the touch;
Melts in the furnace of desire,

Like glass, that's but the ice of fire;
And when his heat of fancy 's over,
Becomes as hard and frail a lover:
For, when he 's with love-powder laden,
And prim'd and cock'd by miss or madam,
The smallest sparkle of an eye
Gives fire to his artillery,

And off the loud oaths go, but, while
They're in the very act, recoil.
Hence 'tis so few dare take their chance
Without a separate maintenance;
And widows, who have try'd one lover,
Trust none again till they 've made over;
Or, if they do, before they marry,
The foxes weigh the geese they carry,
And, ere they venture o'er a stream,
Know how to size themselves and them.
Whence wittiest ladies always choose
To undertake the heaviest goose:
For now the world is grown so wary,
That few of either sex dare marry,
But rather trust, on tick, t' amours,
The cross and pile for better or worse;
A mode that is held honourable
As well as French, and fashionable:
For when it falls out for the best,
Where both are incommoded least,
In soul and body two unite
To make up one hermaphrodite,
Still amorous, and fond, and billing,
Like Philip and Mary on a shilling,
They 've more punctilios and capriches
Between the petticoat and breeches,
More petulant extravagances,

Than poets make them in romances;

Though, when their heroes 'spouse the dames,
We hear no more of charms and flames;

For then their late attracts decline,
And turn as eager as prick'd wine,
And all their caterwauling tricks,
In earnest to as jealous piques,
Which th' ancients wisely signify'd
By th' yellow manteaus of the bride:
For jealousy is but a kind

Of clap and grincam of the mind,
The natural effects of love,

As other flames and aches prove:
But all the mischief is, the doubt

On whose account they first broke out.

For though Chineses go to bed,
And lie-in in their ladies' stead,
And, for the pains they took before,
Are nurs'd and pamper'd to do more,

Our green-men do it worse, when th' hap
To fall in labour of a clap;
Both lay the child to one another,
But who 's the father, who the mother,
'Tis hard to say in multitudes,
Or who imported the French goods.
But health and sickness being all one,
Which both engag'd before to own,
And are not with their bodies bound
To worship, only when they 're sound,
Both give and take their equal shares
Of all they suffer by false wares ;

A fate no lover can divert

With all his caution, wit, and art:
For 'tis in vain to think to guess

At women by appearances,

That paint and patch their imperfections
Of intellectual complexions,

And daub their tempers o'er with washes,
As artificial as their faces;

Wear under vizard-masks their talents,
And mother-wits before their gallants;
Until they're hamper'd in the noose,
Too fast to dream of breaking loose;
When all the flaws they strove to hide
Are made unready with the bride,
That with her wedding-clothes undresses
Her complaisance and gentilesses;
Tries all her arts to take upon her
The government, from th' easy owner;
Until the wretch is glad to wave
His lawful right, and turn her slave;
Find all his having and his holding
Reduc'd t' eternal noise and scolding;
The conjugal petard, that tears
Down all portcullices of ears,
And makes the volley of one tongue
For all their leathern shields too strong:
When only arm'd with noise and nails,
The female silk-worms ride the males,
Transform them into rams and goats,
Like Sirens, with their charming notes;
Sweet as a screech-owl's serenade,
Or those enchanting murmurs made
By th' husband mandrake, and the wife,
Both bury'd (like themselves) alive."

Quoth he, "These reasons are but strains
Of wanton over-heated brains,
Which ralliers in their wit or drink
Do rather wheedle with than think.
Man was not man in Paradise,
Until he was created twice,
And had his better half, his bride,
Carv'd from th' original, his side,
T" amend his natural defects,
And perfect his recruiting sex;
Enlarge his breed, at once, and lessen
The pains and labour of increasing,
By changing them for other cares,
As by his dry'd-up paps appears.
His body, that stupendous frame,
Of all the world the anagram,
Is of two equal parts compact,
In shape and symmetry exact,
Of which the left and female side

Is to the manly right a bride,

Both join'd together with such art,
That nothing else but Death can part.
Those heavenly attracts of your's, your eyes,
And face, that all the world surprise,
That dazzle all that look upon ye,
And scorch all other ladies tawny;
Those ravishing and charming graces,
Are all made up of two half faces,
That, in a mathematic line,
Like those in other Heavens, join;
Of which, if either grew alone,
"Twould fright as much to look upon:
And so would that sweet bud, your lip,
Without the other's fellowship.
Our noblest senses act by pairs,
Two eyes to see, to hear two ears;

Th' intelligencers of the mind,
To wait upon the soul design'd:
But those that serve the body alone
Are single and confin'd to one.
The world is but two parts, that meet
And close at th' equinoctial fit;
And so are all the works of Nature,
Stamp'd with her signature on matter;
Which all her creatures, to a leaf,
Or smallest blade of grass, receive.
All which sufficiently declare
How entirely marriage is her care,
The only method that she uses
In all the wonders she produces;

And those that take their rules from her

Can never be deceiv'd nor err:

For what secures the civil life,

But pawns of children, and a wife?
That lie, like hostages, at stake,
To pay for all men undertake;
To whom it is as necessary,

As to be born and breathe, to marry;
So universal, all mankind

In nothing else is of one mind:
For in what stupid age or nation
Was marriage ever out of fashion?
Unless among the Amazons,

Or cloister'd friars and Vestal nuns,
Or Stoics, who, to bar the freaks
And loose excesses of the sex,
Preposterously would have all women
Turn'd up to all the world in common;
Though men would find such mortal feuds
In sharing of their public goods,

"Twould put them to more charge of lives,
Than they 're supply'd with now by wives,
Until they graze, and wear their clothes,
As beasts do, of their native growths;
For simple wearing of their horns
Will not suffice to serve their turns.
For what can we pretend t' inherit,
Unless the marriage-deed will bear it?
Could claim no right to lands or rents,
But for our parents' settlements;
Had been but younger sons o' th' Earth,
Debarr'd it all, but for our birth.
What honours, or estates of peers,
Could be preserv'd but by their heirs?
And what security maintains
Their right and title, but the banns?
What crowns could be hereditary,
If greatest monarchs did not marry,
And with their consorts consummate
Their weightiest interests of state?
For all th' amours of princes are
But guarantees of peace or war.
Or what but marriage has a charm,
The rage of empires to disarm?
Make blood and desolation cease,
And fire and sword unite in peace,
When all their fierce contests for forage
Conclude in articles of marriage?
Nor does the genial bed provide
Less for the interests of the bride,
Who else had not the least pretence
Tas much as due benevolence;
Could no more title take upon her
To virtue, quality, and honour,
Than ladies errant unconfin'd,
And feme-coverts to all mankind.

All women would be of one piece,
The virtuous matron, and the miss;
The nymphs of chaste Diana's train,
The same with those in Lewkner's Lane,
But for the difference marriage makes
'Twixt wives and ladies of the Lakes:
Besides the joys of place and birth,
The sex's Paradise on Earth,
A privilege so sacred held,

That none will to their mothers yield,
But, rather than not go before,
Abandon Heaven at the door:
And if th' indulgent law allows
A greater freedom to the spouse,
The reason is, because the wife
Runs greater hazards of her life;
Is trusted with the form and matter
Of all mankind, by careful Nature,
Where man brings nothing but the stuff
She frames the wondrous fabric of;
Who therefore, in a strait, may freely
Demand the clergy of her belly,
And make it save her the same way
It seldom misses to betray,
Unless both parties wisely enter
Into the Liturgy indenture.

And though some fits of small contest
Sometimes fall out among the best,
That is no more than every lover
Does from his hackney-lady suffer;
That makes no breach of faith and love,
But rather (sometimes) serves t' improve:
For as, in running, every pace
Is but between two legs a race,
In which both do their uttermost
To get before and win the post,

Yet when they 're at their race's ends,
They 're still as kind and constant friends,
And, to relieve their weariness,

By turns give one another ease;
So all those false alarms of strife
Between the husband and the wife,
And little quarrels, often prove
To be but new recruits of Love;
When those who 're always kind or coy,
In time must either tire or cloy.
Nor are the loudest clamours more
Than as they're relish'd, sweet or sour;
Like music, that proves bad or good,
According as 'tis understood.

In all amours a lover burns

With frowns, as well as smiles, by turns;
And hearts have been as oft with sullen
As charming looks surpris'd and stolen:
Then why should more bewitching clamour
Some lovers not as much enamour?
For discords make the sweetest airs,
And curses are a kind of prayers;
Too slight alloys for all those grand
Felicities by marriage gain'd:
For nothing else has power to settle
The interests of love perpetual;

An act and deed that makes one heart
Become another's counterpart,
And passes fines on faith and love,
Enroll'd and register'd above,
To seal the slippery knots of vows,
Which nothing else but Death can loose.
And what security's too strong,

To guard that gentle heart from wrong,

That to its friend is glad to pass
Itself away, and all it has,

And, like an anchorite, gives over

This world, for the Heaven of a lover?"

"I grant," quoth she, "there are some few
Who take that course, and find it true;
But millions whom the same does sentence
To Heaven b' another way, repentance.
Love's arrows are but shot at rovers,
Though all they hit they turn to lovers;
And all the weighty consequents
Depend upon more blind events

Than gamesters, when they play a set
With greatest cunning at piquet,
Put out with caution, but take in
They know not what, unsight, unseen.
For what do lovers, when they're fast
In one another's arms embrac'd,
But strive to plunder, and convey
Each other, like a prize, away?
To change the property of selves,
As sucking children are by elves?
And, if they use their persons so,
What will they to their fortunes do?
Their fortunes! the perpetual aims
Of all their ecstasies and flames.
For when the money 's on the book,
And All my worldly goods-but spoke,
(The formal livery and seisin
That puts the lover in possession)
To that alone the bridegroom 's wedded,
The bride a flam, that 's superseded:
To that their faith is still made good,
And all the oaths to us they vow'd;
For when we once resign our powers,
We 've nothing left we can call ours:
Our money 's now become the Miss
Of all your lives and services,
And we, forsaken and postpon'd,
But bawds to what before we own'd;
Which, as it made y' at first gallant us,
So now hires others to supplant us,
Until 'tis all turn'd out of doors
(As we had been) for new amours.
For what did ever heiress yet,
By being born to lordships, get?
When, the more lady she 's of manors,
She's but expos'd to more trepanners,
Pays for their projects and designs,
And for her own destruction fines;
And does but tempt them with her riches,
To use her as the Devil does witches;
Who takes it for a special grace
To be their cully for a space,
That when the time 's expir'd, the drazels
For ever may become his vassals:
So she, bewitch'd by rooks and spirits,
Betrays herself, and all sh' inherits;
Is bought and sold, like stolen goods,
By pimps, and match-makers, and bawds
Until they force her to convey,
And steal the thief himself away.
These are the everlasting fruits
Of all your passionate lovesuits,
Th' effects of all your amorous fancies
To portions and inheritances;
Your lovesick rapture, for fruition
Of dowry, jointure, and tuition;

To which you make address and courtship,
And with your bodies strive to worship,

That th' infant's fortunes may partake
Of love too, for the mother's sake.
For these you play at purposes,
And love your loves with A's and B's;
For these at beste and l'ombre woo,
And play for love and money too:
Strive who shall be the ablest man
At right gallanting of a fan;
And who the most genteelly bred
At sucking of a vizard-bear;
How best t'accost us in all quarters,
T' our question-and-command new garters;
And solidly discourse upon

All sorts of dresses pro and con:
For there's no mystery nor trade,
But in the art of love is made;

And when you have more debts to pay
Than Michaelmas and Lady-day,

And no way possible to do 't,

But love, and oaths, and restless suit,
To us y' apply, to pay the scores
Of all your cully'd past amours;
Act o'er your flames and darts again,
And charge us with your wounds and pain;
Which others' influences long since
Have charm'd your noses with, and shins;
For which the surgeon is unpaid,
And like to be, without our aid.
Lord! what an amorous thing is want!
How debts and mortgages enchant !
What graces must that lady have,
That can from executions save!
What charms, that can reverse extent,
And null decree and exigent!
What magical attracts and graces,
That can redeem from Scire facias!
From bonds and statutes can discharge,
And from contempts of courts enlarge !
These are the highest excellencies
Of all your true or false pretences;
And you would damn yourselves, and swear
As much t' an hostess dowager,
Grown fat and pursy by retail
Of pots of beer and bottled ale,
And find her fitter for your turn,

For fat is wondrous apt to burn;

Who at your flames would soon take fire,
Relent, and melt to your desire,
And, like a candle in the socket,
Dissolve her graces int' your pocket."

By this time 'twas grown dark and late,
When th' heard a knocking at the gate,
Laid on in haste, with such a powder,
The blows grew louder still and louder;
Which Hudibras, as if they 'd been
Bestow'd as freely on his skin,
Expounding by his inward light,
Or rather more prophetic fright,
To be the wizard, come to search,
And take him napping in the lurch,
Turn'd pale as ashes, or a clout,
But why, or wherefore, is a doubt;
For men will tremble, and turn paler,
With too much or too little valour.
His heart laid on, as if it try'd
To force a passage through his side,
Impatient (as he vow'd) to wait them,
But in a fury to fly at them;
And therefore beat and laid about
To find a cranny to creep out.

But she, who saw in what a taking
The knight was by his furious quaking,
Undaunted ery'd, “ Courage, sir Knight,
Know I'm resolv'd to break no rite
Of hospitality to a stranger,
But, to secure you out of danger,
Will here myself stand centinel,
To guard this pass 'gainst Sidrophel:
Women, you know, do seldom fail

To make the stoutest men turn tail,
And bravely scorn to turn their backs
Upon the desperatest attacks."
At this the knight grew resolute
As Ironside, or Hardiknute';
His fortitude began to rally,
And out he cry'd aloud to sally;
But she besought him to convey
His courage rather out o' th' way,
And lodge in ambush on the floor,
Or fortify'd behind a door,
That, if the enemy should enter,
He might relieve her in th' adventure.
Meanwhile, they knock'd against the door,
As fierce as at the gate before;
Which made the renegado knight
Relapse again t' his former fright.
He thought it desperate to stay
Till th' enemy had forc'd his way,
But rather post himself, to serve
The lady for a fresh reserve.
His duty was not to dispute,
But what she 'ad order'd execute:
Which he resolv'd in haste t' obey,
And therefore stoutly march'd away,
And all h' encounter'd fell upon,
Though in the dark, and all alone;
Till fear, that braver feats performs
Than ever courage dar'd in arms,
Had drawn him up before a pass,
To stand upon his guard, and face:
This he courageously invaded,
And, having enter'd, barricadoed;
Insconc'd himself as formidable
As could be underneath a table,
Where he lay down in ambush close,
T' expect th' arrival of his foes.
Few minutes he had lain perdue,
To guard his desperate avenue,
Before he heard a dreadful shout,
As loud as putting to the rout,
With which impatiently alarm'd,
He fancy'd th' enemy had storm'd,
And, after entering, Sidrophel
Was fallen upon the guards pell-mell:
He therefore sent out all his senses
To bring him in intelligences,
Which vulgars, out of ignorance,
Mistake for falling in a trance;
But those that trade in geomancy,
Affirm to be the strength of fancy;
In which the Lapland magi deal,
And things incredible reveal.
Meanwhile the foe beat up his quarters,
And storm'd the outworks of his fortress;
And, as another of the same

Degree and party, in arms and fame,

That in the same cause had engag'd,
And war with equal conduct wag'd,
By venturing only but to thrust
His head a span beyond his post,
B' a general of the cavaliers

Was dragg'd through a window by the ears;
So he was serv'd in his redoubt,
And by the other end pull'd out.

Soon as they had him at their mercy,
They put him to the cudgel fiercely,
As if they 'ad scorn'd to trade or barter,
By giving or by taking quarter:
They stoutly on his quarters laid,
Until his scouts came in t' his aid:
For when a man is past his sense,
There's no way to reduce him thence,
But twinging him by th' ears or nose,
Or laying on of heavy blows,
And, if that will not do the deed,
To burning with hot irons proceed.
No sooner was he come t' himself,
But on his neck a sturdy elf
Clapp'd, in a trice, his cloven hoof,
And thus attack'd him with reproof :
"Mortal, thou art betray'd to us
B' our friend, thy evil genius;
Who for thy horrid perjuries,
Thy breach of faith, and turning lies,
The brethren's privilege (against
The wicked) on themselves, the saints,
Has here thy wretched carcass sent,
For just revenge and punishment;
Which thou hast now no way to lessen,
But by an open, free confession;
For if we catch thee failing once,
"Twill fall the heavier on thy bones.

"What made thee venture to betray,
And filch the lady's heart away?
To spirit her to matrimony?"—

"That which contracts all matches,-money.
It was th' enchantment of her riches,
That made m' apply t' your crony witches;
That in return would pay th' expense,
The wear and tear of conscience;

Which I could have patch'd up, and turn'd,

For th' hundredth part of what I earn'd."

"Didst thou not love her then? speak true." "No more," quoth he, "than I love you." "How wouldst thou 'ave us'd her and her money?" "First turn'd her up to alimony, And laid her dowry out in law, To null her jointure with a flaw, Which I beforehand had agreed T have put, on purpose, in the deed, And bar her widow's making over T'a friend in trust, or private lover?"

"What made thee pick and choose her out T'employ their sorceries about ?"

"That which makes gamesters play with those
Who have least wit, and most to lose."
"But didst thou scourge thy vessel thus,
As thou hast damn'd thyself to us?"
"I see you take me for an ass:
'Tis true, I thought the trick would pass
Upon a woman well enough,

As 't has been often found by proof;
Whose humours are not to be won
But when they are impos'd upon;

the one a Saxon, the other a Dane.

That stand for candidates, and woo."

"Why didst thou forge those shameful lies Of bears and witches in disguise?"

"That is no more than authors give The rabble credit to believe;

A trick of following their leaders,
To entertain their gentle readers:
And we have now no other way
Of passing all we do or say;
Which, when 'tis natural and true,
Will be believ'd b' a very few,
Beside the danger of offence,

The fatal enemy of sense."

66

Why didst thou choose that cursed sin, Hypocrisy, to set up in ?"

"Because it is the thriving'st calling,
The only saints' bell that rings all in;
In which all churches are concern'd,
And is the easiest to be learn'd:

For no degrees, unless th' employ it,
Can ever gain much, or enjoy it :
A gift that is not only able
To domineer among the rabble,
But, by the laws, impower'd to rout
And awe the greatest that stand out;
Which few hold forth against, for fear
Their hands should slip, and come too near;
For no sin else, among the saints,

Is taught so tenderly against."

"What made thee break thy plighted vows?"
"That which makes others break a house,
And hang, and scorn ye all, before
Endure the plague of being poor."

Quoth he, "I see you have more tricks
Than all our doating politics,
That are grown old, and out of fashion,
Compar'd with your new reformation;
That we must come to school to you,
To learn your more refin'd and new."
Quoth he, "If you will give me leave
To tell you what I now perceive,
You'll find yourself an errant chouse,
If y' were but at a meeting-house."

"Tis true," quoth he, "we ne'er come there, Because w' have let 'em out by th' year."

"Truly," quoth be, "you can't imagine
What wondrous things they will engage in;
That, as your fellow-fiends in Hell
Were angels all before they fell,
So are you like to be again,

Compar'd with th' angels of us men."
Quoth he, "I am resolv'd to be
Thy scholar in this mystery;
And therefore first desire to know
Some principles on which you go.-
What makes a knave a child of God,
And one of us?"-" A livelihood."
"What renders beating out of brains,
And murder, godliness?"-" Great gains."
"What's tender conscience?"-" "Tis a botch
That will not bear the gentlest touch;
But, breaking out, dispatches more
Than th' epidemical'st plague-sore."

"What makes y' encroach upon our trade, And damn all others?"-" To be paid." "What 's orthodox and true believing Against a conscience?"-" A good living." "What makes rebelling against kings A good old cause?"--" Administrings." "What makes all doctrines plain and clear?""About two hundred pounds a-year."

"And that which was prov'd true before, Prove false again?"-" Two hundred more." "What makes the breaking of all oaths A holy duty?"-" Food and clothes." "What, laws and freedom, persecution ?""Being out of power and contribution."

"What makes a church a den of thieves?""A dean and chapter, and white sleeves." "And what would serve, if those were gone, To make it orthodox ?"-" Our own."

"What makes morality a crime,

The most notorious of the time;
Morality, which both the saints
And wicked too cry out against?"-
"'Cause grace and virtue are within
Prohibited degrees of kin;

And therefore no true saint allows
They shall be suffer'd to espouse:
For saints can need no conscience,
That with morality dispense;

As virtue 's impious, when 'tis rooted
In nature only, and not imputed:
But why the wicked should do so,
We neither know, nor care to do."

"What's liberty of conscience,
I' th' natural and genuine sense?"—
""Tis to restore, with more security,
Rebellion to its ancient purity;
And Christian liberty reduce
To th' elder practice of the Jews;
For a large conscience is all one,
And signifies the same with none.

"It is enough," quoth he, " for once, And has repriev'd thy forfeit bones; Nick Machiavel bad ne'er a trick, (Though he gave his name to our Old Nick) But was below the least of these, That pass i' th' world for holiness." This said, the Furies and the light In th' instant vanish'd out of sight, And left him in the dark alone, With stinks of brimstone and his own.

The queen of Night, whose large command
Rules all the sea, and half the land,
And over moist and crazy brains,

In high spring-tides, at midnight reigns,
Was now declining to the west,
To go to bed and take her rest,
When Hudibras, whose stubborn blows
Deny'd his bones that soft repose,
Lay still, expecting worse and more,
Stretch'd out at length upon the floor;
And, though he shut his eyes as fast
As if he 'ad been to sleep his last,
Saw all the shapes that fear or wizards
Do make the Devil wear for vizards;
And, pricking up his ears, to hark
If he could hear, too, in the dark,
Was first invaded with a groan,
And after in a feeble tone,

These trembling words: "Unhappy wretch!
What hast thou gotten by this fetch,
Or all thy tricks, in this new trade,
Thy holy brotherhood o' th' blade?
By sauntering still on some adventure,
And growing to thy horse a Centaur?
To stuff thy skin with swelling knobs
Of cruel and hard-wooded drubs?
For still thou 'ast had the worst on 't yet,
As well in conquest as defeat: