Hudibras

When civil dudgeon first grew high, And men fell out they knew not why; When hard words, jealousies, and fears, Set folks together by the ears, And made them fight, like mad or drunk, For dame Religion as for punk; Whose honesty they all durst swear for, Though not a man of them knew wherefore; When gospel-trumpeter, surrounded With long-ear’d rout, to battle sounded, And pulpit, drum ecclesiastick, Was beat with fist, instead of a stick; Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling, And out he rode a colonelling. A wight he was, whose very sight would Entitle him Mirror of Knighthood; That never bent his stubborn knee To any thing but chivalry; Nor put up blow, but that which laid Right worshipful on shoulder-blade: Chief of domestic knights and errant, Either for cartel or for warrant; Great on the bench, great in the saddle, That could as well bind o’er, as swaddle: Mighty he was at both of these, And styl’d of war, as well as peace. (So some rats, of amphibious nature, Are either for the land or water.) But here our authors make a doubt Whether he were more wise, or stout. Some hold the one, and some the other; But howsoe’er they make a pother, The diff’rence was so small, his brain Outweigh’d his rage but half a grain; Which made some take him for a tool, That knaves do work with, call’d a fool. And offer to lay wagers that As Montaigne, playing with his cat, Complains she thought him but an ass, Much more she would Sir Hudibras; (For that’s the name our valiant Knight To all his challenges did write.) But they’re mistaken very much; ’Tis plain enough he was no such.

But now we talk of mounting steed, Before we further do proceed, It doth behove us to say something Of that which bore our valiant bumpkin. The beast was sturdy, large, and tall, With mouth of meal, and eyes of wall. I would say eye; for h’ had but one, As most agree; though some say none. He was well stay’d; and in his gait Preserv’d a grave, majestick state. At spur or switch no more he skipt, Or mended pace, than Spaniard whipt; And yet so fiery, he would bound As if he griev’d to touch the ground: That Caesar’s horse who, as fame goes Had corns upon his feet and toes, Was not by half so tender hooft, Nor trod upon the ground so soft. And as that beast would kneel and stoop (Some write) to take his rider up, So Hudibras his (’tis well known) Would often do to set him down. We shall not need to say what lack Of leather was upon his back; For that was hidden under pad, And breech of Knight, gall’d full as bad. His strutting ribs on both sides show’d Like furrows he himself had plow’d; For underneath the skirt of pannel, ’Twixt ev’ry two there was a channel. His draggling tail hung in the dirt, Which on his rider he would flirt, Still as his tender side he prick’d, With arm’d heel, or with unarm’d, kick’d;

Quoth she, Those need not he asham’d For being honorably maim’d; If he that is in battle conquer’d, Have any title to his own beard, Though yours be sorely lugg’d and torn, It does your visage more adorn Than if ’twere prun’d, and starch’d, and lander’d, And cut square by the Russian standard. A torn beard’s like a tatter’d ensign, That’s bravest which there are most rents in. That petticoat about your shoulders Does not so well become a soldier’s; And I’m afraid they are worse handled, Although i’ th’ rear; your beard the van led; And those uneasy bruises make My heart for company to ake, To see so worshipful a friend I’ th’ pillory set, at the wrong end.

Quoth Hudibras, This thing call’d pain Is (as the learned Stoics maintain) Not bad simpliciter, nor good, But merely as ’tis understood. Sense is deceitful, and may feign As well in counterfeiting pain As other gross phenomenas, In which it oft mistakes the case. But since th’ immortal intellect (That’s free from error and defect, Whose objects still persist the same) Is free from outward bruise and maim, Which nought external can expose To gross material bangs or blows, It follows we can ne’er be sure, Whether we pain or not endure; And just so far are sore and griev’d, As by the fancy is believ’d. Some have been wounded with conceit, And died of mere opinion straight; Others, though wounded sore in reason, Felt no contusion, nor discretion. A Saxon duke did grow so fat, That mice (as histories relate) Eat grots and labyrinths to dwell in His postic parts without his feeling: Then how is’t possible a kick Should e’er reach that way to the quick?

Quoth she, I grieve to see your leg Stuck in a hole here like a peg; And if I knew which way to do’t (Your honour safe) I’d let you out. That dames by jail delivery Of errant-knights have been set free, When by enchantment they have been, And sometimes for it, too, laid in, Is that which knights are bound to do By order, oath, and honour too: For what are they renown’d and famous else, But aiding of distressed damosels? But for a lady, no ways errant, To free a knight, we have no warrant In any authentical romance, Or classic author yet of France; And I’d be loth to have you break An ancient custom for a freak, Or innovation introduce In place of things of antique use, To free your heels by any course, That might b’ unwholesome to your spurs; Which, if I should consent unto, It is not in my pow’r to do; For ’tis a service must be done ye With solemn previous ceremony, Which always has been us’d t’ untie The charms of those who here do lie: For as the ancients heretofore To Honour’s temple had no door But that which through Virtue’s lay, So from this dungeon there’s no way To honour’d freedom, but by passing That other virtuous school of lashing, Where knights are kept in narrow lists, With wooden lockets ’bout their wrists; In which they for a while are tenants, And for their ladies suffer penance: Whipping, that’s Virtue’s governess, Tut’ress of arts and sciences; That mends the gross mistakes of Nature, And puts new life into dull matter; That lays foundation for renown, And all the honours of the gown.

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?⁠—Administ’rings.

What makes old 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?⁠— B’ing out of pow’r, and contribution.

What makes a church a den of thieves?⁠— A dean and chapter, and white sleeves.

Ad 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, or 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.