Hudibras quotes

He knew what’s what, and that’s as high As metaphysic wit can fly. In school-divinity as able As he that hight, Irrefragable; A second Thomas, or, at once, To name them all, another Dunce: Profound in all the nominal And real ways, beyond them all;

For he a rope of sand could twist As tough as learned Sorbonist;

And weave fine cobwebs, fit for skull That’s empty when the moon is full; Such as take lodgings in a head That’s to be let unfurnished. He could raise scruples dark and nice, And after solve ’em in a trice;

He’d undertake to prove, by force Of argument, a man’s no horse; He’d prove a buzzard is no fowl, And that a lord may be an owl, A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, And rooks committee-men and trustees.

He’d run in debt by disputation, And pay with ratiocination.

All this by syllogism, true In mood and figure he would do. For Rhetoric, he could not ope His mouth, but out there flew a trope:

The self-same thing they will abhor One way, and long another for. Free-will they one way disavow; Another, nothing else allow. All piety consists therein In them, in other men all sin. Rather than fail, they will decry That which they love most tenderly;

Quarrel with minc’d-pies, and disparage Their best and dearest friend, plum-porridge.

Fat pig and goose itself oppose, And blaspheme custard through the nose. Th’ apostles of this fierce religion, Like Mahomet’s, were ass and widgeon;

’Twas Presbyterian true blue; For he was of that stubborn crew Of errant saints, whom all men grant To be the true church militant; Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun;

Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery;

And prove their doctrine orthodox By apostolic blows and knocks; Call fire and sword and desolation, A godly thorough reformation, Which always must be carried on, And still be doing, never done: As if religion were intended For nothing else but to be mended.

Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery; And prove their doctrine orthodox By apostolic blows and knocks; Call fire and sword and desolation, A godly thorough reformation, Which always must be carried on, And still be doing, never done:

As if religion were intended For nothing else but to be mended.

A sect, whose chief devotion lies In odd perverse antipathies; In falling out with that or this, And finding somewhat still amiss; More peevish, cross, and splenetick, Than dog distract, or monkey sick.

More peevish, cross, and splenetick, Than dog distract, or monkey sick. That with more care keep holy-day The wrong, than others the right way; Compound for sins they are inclin’d to, By damning those they have no mind to:

Still so perverse and opposite, As if they worshipp’d God for spite.

The self-same thing they will abhor One way, and long another for. Free-will they one way disavow; Another, nothing else allow. All piety consists therein In them, in other men all sin. Rather than fail, they will decry That which they love most tenderly;

A squire he had, whose name was Ralph, That in th’ adventure went his half: Though writers, for more stately tone, Do call him Ralpho; ’tis all one; And when we can with metre safe, We’ll call him so; if not, plain Ralph. (

For rhyme the rudder is of verses, With which like ships they steer their courses.

) An equal stock of wit and valour He had laid in; by birth a tailor. The mighty Tyrian queen, that gain’d With subtle shreds a tract of land, Did leave it with a castle fair To his great ancestor, her heir.

Learned he was, and could take note, Transcribe, collect, translate, and quote. But preaching was his chiefest talent, Or argument, in which b’ing valiant, He us’d to lay about and stickle, Like ram or bull, at conventicle:

For disputants, like rams and bulls, Do fight with arms that spring from skulls.

Last Colon came, bold man of war, Destin’d to blows by fatal star; Right expert in command of horse, But cruel, and without remorse. That which of Centaur long ago Was said, and has been wrested to Some other knights, was true of this;

But th’ other, that had broke the peace And head of knighthood, they release; Though a delinquent false and forged, Yet, being a stranger he’s enlarged, While his comrade, that did no hurt, Is clapp’d up fast in prison for’t.

So Justice, while she winks at crimes, Stumbles on innocence sometimes.

but if they find We fly, and leave our arms behind For them to seize on, the dishonour, And danger too, is such, I’ll sooner Stand to it boldly, and take quarter, To let them see I am no starter.

In all the trade of war, no feat Is nobler than a brave retreat:

For those that run away, and fly, Take place at least of th’ enemy.

My laurels are transplanted now, And flourish on thy conqu’ring brow: My loss of honour’s great enough, Thou need’st not brand it with a scoff: Sarcasms may eclipse thine own, But cannot blur my lost renown. I am not now in Fortune’s power;

He that is down can fall no lower.

The ancient heroes were illustrious For being benign, and not blustrous, Against a vanquish’d foe: their swords Were sharp and trenchant, not their words; And did in fight but cut work out T’ employ their courtesies about.

Though we with blacks and blues are suggill’d, Or, as the vulgar say, are cudgell’d; He that is valiant, and dares fight, Though drubb’d, can lose no honour by’t.

Honour’s a lease for lives to come, And cannot be extended from The legal tenant;

’tis a chattel Not to be forfeited in battle. If he that in the field is slain, Be in the bed of honour lain, He that is beaten may be said To lie in honour’s truckle-bed.

Sure ’tis an orthodox opinion, That grace is founded in dominion.

Great piety consists in pride; To rule is to be sanctified:

To domineer, and to control, Both o’er the body and the soul, Is the most perfect discipline Of church-rule, and by right divine. Bel and the Dragon’s chaplains were More moderate than these by far:

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;

Quoth she, Y’ have almost made me in love With that which did my pity move.

Great wits and valours, like great states, Do sometimes sink with their own weights:

Th’ extremes of glory and of shame, Like east and west, become the same: No Indian prince has to his palace More foll’wers than a thief to th’ gallows.

As no man can draw in his breath At once, and force out air beneath? Or do you love yourself so much, To bear all rivals else a grutch? What fate can lay a greater curse Than you upon yourself would force?

For wedlock without love, some say, Is but a lock without a key.

It is a kind of rape to marry One that neglects, or cares not for ye: For what does make it ravishment, But b’ing against the mind’s consent? A rape that is the more inhuman For being acted by a woman.

you take your aim amiss: For you will find it a hard chapter To catch me with poetic rapture, In which your mastery of art Doth shew itself, and not your heart: Nor will you raise in mine combustion By dint of high heroic fustian.

She that with poetry is won, Is but a desk to write upon;

And what men say of her, they mean No more than on the thing they lean. Some with Arabian spices strive T’ embalm her cruelly alive; Or season her, as French cooks use Their haut-gouts, bouillies, or ragouts:

If matrimony and hanging go By dest’ny, why not whipping too? What med’cine else can cure the fits Of lovers when they lose their wits?

Love is a boy by poets styl’d; Then spare the rod, and spoil the child.

A Persian emp’ror whipp’d his grannam, The sea, his mother Venus came on; And hence some rev’rend men approve Of rosemary in making love. As skilful coopers hoop their tubs With Lydian and with Phrygian dubs, Why may not whipping have as good A grace?

This, therefore, may be justly reckon’d A heinous sin. Now to the second That saints may claim a dispensation To swear and forswear, on occasion, I doubt not but it will appear With pregnant light: the point is clear.

Oaths are but words, and words but wind; Too feeble implements to bind;

And hold with deeds proportion so As shadows to a substance do. Then when they strive for place, ’tis fit The weaker vessel should submit.

Does not in Chanc’ry ev’ry man swear What makes best for him in his answer? Is not the winding up witnesses And nicking more than half the bus’ness?

For witnesses, like watches, go Just as they’re set, too fast or slow;

And where in conscience they’re strait-lac’d, ’Tis ten to one that side is cast. Do not your juries give their verdict As if they felt the cause, not heard it?

With whom being met, they both chop logic About the science astrologic: Till falling from dispute to fight, The Conj’rer’s worsted by the Knight.

Doubtless the pleasure is as great Of being cheated, as to cheat;

As lookers-on feel most delight, That least perceive a juggler’s sleight; And still the less they understand, The more th’ admire his slight of hand.

Quoth Hudibras, Alas! what is’t t’ us, Whether ’twas said by Trismegistus, If it be nonsense, false, or mystic, Or not intelligible, or sophistic?

’Tis not antiquity nor author, That makes Truth truth, altho’ Time’s daughter;

’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.

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 y’ have gain’d o’ th’ college A quarter share (at most) of knowledge, And brought in none, but spent repute, Y’ assume a pow’r as absolute To judge, and censure, and control, As if you were the sole Sir Poll;

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 pow’r to settle Th’ interests of love perpetual;

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 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’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 had 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.

For though out-number’d, overthrown, And by the fate of war run down, Their duty never was defeated, Nor from their oaths and faith retreated;

For loyalty is still the same, Whether it win or lose the game;

True as the dial to the sun, Although it be not shin’d upon.

While others, in old faiths and troths, Look odd as out-of-fashion’d cloths; And nastier in an old opinion, Than those who never shift their linen.

For true and faithful’s sure to lose, Which way soever the game goes;

And whether parties lose or win, Is always nick’d, or else hedg’d in: While pow’r usurp’d, like stol’n delight, Is more bewitching than the right; And when the times begin to alter, None rise so high as from the halter.

For true and faithful’s sure to lose, Which way soever the game goes; And whether parties lose or win, Is always nick’d, or else hedg’d in: While pow’r usurp’d, like stol’n delight, Is more bewitching than the right; And when the times begin to alter,

None rise so high as from the halter.

And so may we, if w’ have but sense To use the necessary means; And not your usual stratagems On one another, lights and dreams: To stand on terms as positive, As if we did not take, but give:

I grant, all courses are in vain, Unless we can get in again; The only way that’s left us now; But all the difficulty’s how. ’Tis true, w’ have money, th’ only pow’r That all mankind falls down before;

Money, that, like the swords of kings, Is the last reason of all things;

And therefore need not doubt our play Has all advantages that way; As long as men have faith to sell, And meet with those that can pay well;

As some of us, in trusts, have made The one hand with the other trade; Gain’d vastly by their joint endeavour, The right a thief, the left receiver; And what the one, by tricks, forestall’d, The other, by as sly, retail’d.

For gain has wonderful effects T’ improve the factory of sects;

The rule of faith in all professions, And great Diana of the Ephesians; Whence turning of religion ’s made The means to turn and wind a trade: And though some change it for the worse, They put themselves into a course;

Let business, like ill watches, go Sometime too fast, sometime too slow; For things in order are put out So easy, ease itself will do’t; But when the feat’s design’d and meant, What miracle can bar th’ event?

For ’tis more easy to betray, Than ruin any other way.

All possible occasions start The weightiest matters to divert; Obstruct, perplex, distract, entangle, And lay perpetual trains to wrangle. But in affairs of less import, That neither do us good nor hurt, And they receive as little by, Out-fawn as much, and out-comply;

And have no possible foundation, But merely in th’ imagination; And yet can do more dreadful feats Than hags, with all their imps and teats; Make more bewitch and haunt themselves Than all their nurseries of elves?

For fear does things so like a witch, ’Tis hard t’ unriddle which is which.

Sets up Communities of senses, To chop and change intelligences; As Rosicrucian virtuosos Can see with ears, and hear with noses; And when they neither see nor hear, Have more than both supply’d by fear;

And therefore I, with reason, chose This stratagem t’ amuse our foes; To make an honourable retreat, And wave a total sure defeat:

For those that fly may fight again, Which he can never do that’s slain.

Hence timely running’s no mean part Of conduct in the martial art; By which some glorious feats achieve, As citizens by breaking thrive; And cannons conquer armies, while They seem to draw off and recoil;

I thank you, (quoth the Knight) for that, Because ’tis to my purpose pat—

For Justice, though she’s painted blind, Is to the weaker side inclin’d,

Like Charity; else right and wrong Could never hold it out so long, And, like blind Fortune, with a sleight Convey mens’ interest and right From Stiles’s pocket into Nokes’s, As easily as Hocus Pocus; Play fast and loose;

All this is right; but for the course You take to do ’t, by fraud or force, ’Tis so ridiculous, as soon As told, ’tis never to be done, No more than setters can betray, That tell what tricks they are to play.

Marriage, at best, is but a vow, Which all men either break or bow:

Then what will those forbear to do, Who perjure when they do but woo? Such as before-hand swear and lie For earnest to their treachery, And, rather than a crime confess, With greater strive to make it less?

Cast earth to earth, as in the grave, To join in wedlock all they have, And, when the settlement’s in force, Take all the rest for better or worse:

For money has a power above The stars and fate to manage love,

Whose arrows, learned poets hold, That never miss, are tipp’d with gold.

The whole world, without art and dress, Would be but one great wilderness; And mankind but a savage herd, For all that nature has conferr’d: This does but rough-hew, and design; Leaves art to polish and refine.

Though women first were made for men, Yet men were made for them agen;

For when (outwitted by his wife) Man first turn’d tenant but for life, If women had not interven’d, How soon had mankind had an end! And that it is in being yet, To us alone you are in debt.

Nor are these master-strokes of beauty To be perform’d without hard duty, Which, when they’re nobly done and well, The simple natural excel. How fair and sweet the planted rose Beyond the wild in hedges grows!

For without art the noblest seeds Of flow’rs degen’rate into weeds.

How dull and rugged, ere ’tis ground And polish’d looks a diamond! Though Paradise were e’er so fair, It was not kept so without care. The whole world, without art and dress, Would be but one great wilderness;