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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 tobay, 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
OPINiators naturally differ Are us'd in selliug than in buying ;
From other men; as wooden legs are stifler But in the great, unjuster dealing
Than those of pliant joints, to yield and bow, Is us'd in buying than in selling.
Which way soe'er they are design'd to go: All smatterers are more brisk and pert
Navigation, that withstood Than those that understand an art;
The mortal fury of the Flood, As little sparkles shine more bright
And prov'd the only means to save Than glowing coals, that give them light.
All earthly creatures from the wave,
Has, for it, taught the sea and wind -Law does not put the least restraint
To lay a tribute on mankind, Upon our freedom, but maintain 't;
That, by degrees, has swallow'd more
Than all it drown'd at once before.
The prince of Syracuse, whose destin'd fate By stinting of our liberty.
It was to keep a school and rule a state,
Found, that his sceptre never was so awd, The world has long endeavour'd to reduce As-when it was translated to a rod; Those things to practice that are of no use; And that his subjects ne'er were so obedient, And strives to practise things of speculation, As when he was inaugurated pedant: And bring the practical to contemplation;
For to instruct is greater than to rule, And by that errour renders both in vain,
And no command 's so imperious as a school. By forcing Nature's course against the grain.
As he, whose destiny does prove In all the world there is no vice
To dangle in the air above, Less prone t excess than avarice;
Does lose his life for want of air, It neither cares for food nor clothing:
That only fell to be his share; Nature 's content with little, that with nothing. So he, whom Fate at once design'd
To plenty and a wretched mind, IN Rome no temple was so low
Is but condemn'd t'a rich distress,
And starves with niggardly excess.
The universal med'cine is a trick,
That Nature never meant, to cure the sick, It is a harder thing for men to rate
Unless by death, the singular receipt,
To root out all diseases by the great:
And therefore that French quack, that set up physic, Particular of all that is their due.
Calld his receipt a general specific.
For, though in mortal poisons every one
Yet Nature never made an antidote
To cure them all as easy as they 're got;
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 pullid off, to find it out
All mankind is but a rabble,
As silly and unreasonable
As those that, crowding in the street,
Of whom no one is in the right,
Yet all fall out about the sight; The rabble from observing what he does.
And, when they chance t'agree, the choice is
Still in the most and worst of vices; As 'tis a greater mystery, in the art
And all the reasons that prevail Of painting, to foreshorten any part
Are measur'd, not by weight, but tale.
TRIPLETS UPON AVARICE...DESCRIPTION OF HOLLAND. 227 As, in all great and crowded fairs,
TO HIS MISTRESS.
Do not unjustly blame
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,
Por 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.
Do not mine affection slight,
'Cause my locks with age are white :
Your breasts have snow without, and snow within, 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.
TO THE SAME.
In days of yore, when knight or squire
By Fate were summon'd to retire, As misers their own laws enjoin,
Some menial poet still was near, To wear 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 laborirs 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 Is 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 bave just reason to complain, Yet after more and more he hankers;
If he should cbance 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, A COUNTRY that draws fifty foot of water,
Than of More-Hall the mighty More,
Or him that made the Dragon roar;
Than Bevis of Southampton town,
is to be found in The Genuine Remains of Butler, And, when they die, are cast away and drown'd; 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' Meets 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-gerinans 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 In 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
Valess 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, Tu 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,
Pull 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. Ill 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
Bát, 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 inodesty and innocence,
For his achievements in bis 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.