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Are fit for music or for pudden;
From whence men borrow ev'ry kind
Of minstrelsy by string or wind.
His grisly beard was long and thick,
With which he strung his fiddlestick;
For he to horse-tail scorn'd to owe
For what on his own chin did grow.
Chiron, the four-legg'd bard, had both
A beard and tail of his own growth;
And yet by authors 'tis averr'd,
He made use only of his beard.

In Staffordshire, where virtuous worth
Does raise the minstrelsy, not birth,
Where bulls do choose the boldest king
And ruler o'er the men of string,
(As once in Persia, 'tis said,

Kings were proclaim'd by a horse that neigh'd)
He, bravely vent'ring at a crown,
By chance of war was beaten down,
And wounded sore: his leg, then broke,
Had got a deputy of oak;

For when a shin in fight is cropt,
The knee with one of timber's propt,
Esteem'd more honourable than the other,

And takes place, though the younger brother.
Next march'd brave Orsin, famous for
Wise conduct, and success in war;
A skilful leader, stout, severe,
Now Marshal to the champion Bear.
With truncheon tipp'd with iron head,
The warrior to the lists he led,

With solemn march, and stately pace,
But far more grave and solemn face;
Grave as the emperor of Pegu,
Or Spanish potentate, Don Diego.
This leader was of knowledge great,
Either for charge or for retreat:
He knew when to fall on pellmell,
To fall back and retreat as well.
Learn'd he was in med'cinal lore,
For by his side a pouch he wore,
Replete with strange hermetic powder,

That wounds nine miles point-blank wou'd solder;
By skilful chemist, with great cost,
Extracted from a rotten post;
But of a heav'nlier influence

Than that which mountebanks dispense;
Though by Promethean fire made,

As they do quack that drive that trade.
For as when slovens do amiss
At other doors, by stool or piss,
The learned write, a redhot spit
B'ing prudently apply'd to it,
Will convey mischief from the dung
Unto the part that did the wrong;
So this did healing, and as sure
As that did mischief, this would cure.
Thus virtuous Orsin was endu'd
With learning, conduct, fortitude,
Incomparable; and as the prince
Of poets, Homer, sung long since,

A skilful leech is better far
Than half a hundred men of war;
So he appear'd, and by his skill,
No less than dint of sword, cou'd kill.
The gallant Bruin march'd next him,
With visage formidably grim,
And rugged as a Saracen,

Or Turk of Mahomet's own kin,
Clad in a mantle della guerre

Of rough impenetrable fur;
And in his nose, like Indian king,
He wore, for ornament, a ring;
About his neck a threefold gorget,
As rough as trebled leathern target;
Armed, as heralds, cant and langued,
Or, as the vulgar say, sharp-fanged:
For as the teeth in beasts of prey
Are swords with which they fight in fray,
So swords, in men of war, are teeth
Which they do eat their victual with.
He was by birth, some authors write,
A Russian, some a Muscovite,

And 'mong the Cossacs had been bred,
Of whom we in diurnals read,
That serve to fill up pages here,
As with their bodies ditches there.
Scrimansky was his cousin-german,
With whom he serv'd, and fed on vermin;
And when these fail'd, he'd suck his claws,
And quarter himself upon his paws;
And though his countrymen, the Huns,
Did stew their meat between their bums
And th' horses' backs o'er which they straddle,
And ev'ry man ate up his saddle;

He was not half so nice as they,

But ate it raw when 't came in 's way.
He'd trac'd the countries far and near,
More than Le Blanc the traveller,
Who writes, he spous'd in India,
Of noble house, a lady gay,
And got on her a race of worthies
As stout as any upon earth is.
Full many a fight for him between
Talgol and Orsin oft had been,
Each striving to deserve the crown
Of a sav'd citizen; the one

To guard his Bear, the other fought
To aid his Dog; both made more stout
By sev'ral spurs of neighbourhood,
Church-fellow-membership, and blood;
But Talgol, mortal foe to cows,
Never got aught of him but blows;
Blows hard and heavy, such as he
Had lent, repaid with usury.

Yet Talgol was of courage stout,
And vanquish'd oft'ner than he fought;
Inur'd to labour, sweat, and toil,
And, like a champion, shone with oil:
Right many a widow his keen blade,
And many fatherless, had made;
He many a boar and huge dun cow

Did, like another Guy, o'erthrow;
But Guy with him in fight compar'd,
Had like the boar or dun cow far'd:

With greater troops of sheep h' had fought
Than Ajax, or bold Don Quixote;

And many a serpent of fell kind,
With wings before and stings behind,
Subdu'd, as poets say, long agone

Bold Sir George, Saint George, did the Dragon.

Nor engine, nor device polemic,
Disease, nor doctor epidemic,

Though stor'd with deletery med'cines,
(Which whosoever took is dead since)
E'er sent so vast a colony

To both the under worlds as he;
For he was of that noble trade
That demi-gods and heroes made,
Slaughter, and knocking on the head,
The trade to which they all were bred:
And is, like others, glorious when
'Tis great and large, but base, if mean:
The former rides in triumph for it,
The latter in a two-wheel'd chariot,
For daring to profane a thing
So sacred with vile bungling.

Next these the brave Magnano came,
Magnano, great in martial fame;
Yet when with Orsin he wag'd fight,
'Tis sung he got but little by 't;
Yet he was fierce as forest boar,
Whose spoils upon his back he wore,
As thick as Ajax' sevenfold shield,
Which o'er his brazen arms he held;
But brass was feeble to resist
The fury of his armed fist;

Nor could the hardest iron hold out

Against his blows, but they would through 't.

In magic he was deeply read,
As he that made the brazen-head;
Profoundly skill'd in the black art,
As English Merlin for his heart;
But far more skilful in the spheres,
Than he was at the sieve and shears.
He could transform himself in colour,
As like the Devil is the collier;
As like the hypocrites, in shew,
Are to true saints, or crow to crow.

Of warlike engines he was author,
Devis'd for quick dispatch of slaughter:
The cannon, blunderbuss, and saker,
He was th' inventor of, and maker:
The trumpet and the kettle-drum
Did both from his invention come:
He was the first that e'er did teach
To make, and how to stop a breach.
A lance he bore with iron pike,

Th' one half would thrust, the other strike;
And when their forces he had join'd,
He scorn'd to turn his parts behind.

He Trulla lov'd; Trulla, more bright
Than burnish'd armour of her knight;
A bold virago, stout and tall,

As Joan of France, or English Mall: Through perils both of wind and limb, Through thick and thin she followed him In ev'ry adventure h' undertook,

And never him or it forsook:

At breach of wall, or hedge surprise,
She shar'd i' th' hazard and the prize;
At beating quarters up, or forage,
Behav'd herself with matchless courage,
And laid about in fight more busily
Than th' Amazonian dame Penthesile.
And though some critics here cry shame,
And say our authors are to blame,
That (spight of all philosophers
Who hold no females stout but bears,
And heretofore did so abhor
That women should pretend to war,
They would not suffer the stout'st dame

To swear by Hercules's name)
Make feeble ladies, in their works,
To fight like termagants and Turks;
To lay their native arms aside,
Their modesty, and ride astride;
To run atilt at men, and wield
Their naked tools in open field;

As stout Armida, bold Thalestris,

And she that would have been the mistress
Of Gondibert, but he had grace,

And rather took a country lass;
They say 'tis false without all sense,
But of pernicious consequence

To government, which they suppose
Can never be upheld in pire;
Strip Nature naked to the skin,
You'll find about her no such thing.
It may be so, yet what we tell
Of Trulla that's improbable

Shall be depos'd by those have seen 't,
Or, what's as good, produc'd in print;
And if they will not take our word,
We'll prove it true upon record.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE RIDING.

At this the Knight grew high in chafe,
And, staring furiously on Ralph,
He trembled, and look'd pale with ire,
Like ashes first, then red as fire.
Have I (quoth he) been ta'en in fight,
And for so many moons lain by 't,
And when all other means did fail,
Have been exchang'd for tubs of ale?
Not but they thought me worth a ransom
Much more consid'rable and handsome,
But for their own sakes, and for fear
They were not safe when I was there;
Now to be baffled by a scoundrel,
An upstart sect❜ry, and a mongrel,
Such as breed out of peccant humours
Of our own church, like wens or tumours,
And, like a maggot in a sore,
Wou'd that which gave it life devour;

It never shall be done or said:
With that he seiz'd upon his blade;
And Ralpho too, as quick and bold,
Upon his basket-hilt laid hold,
With equal readiness prepar'd,
To draw, and stand upon his guard;
When both were parted on the sudden,
With hideous clamour, and a loud one,
As if all sorts of noise had been
Contracted into one loud din:
Or that some member to be chosen,
Had got the odds above a thousand;
And, by the greatness of his noise,
Prov'd fittest for his country's choice.
This strange surprisal put the Knight
And wrathful Squire into a fright;
And though they stood prepar'd, with fatal
Impetuous rancour, to join battle,
Both thought it was the wisest course
To waive the fight, and mount to horse,
And to secure, by swift retreating,
Themselves from danger of worse beating;
Yet neither of them would disparage,
By utt'ring of his mind, his courage,
Which made 'em stoutly keep their ground,
With horror and disdain windbound.
And now the cause of all their fear,
By slow degrees approach'd so near,
They might distinguish diff'rent noise
Of horns, and pans, and dogs, and boys,
And kettledrums, whose sullen dub
Sounds like the hooping of a tub.
But when the sight apar'd in view,
They found it was an antique shew;
A triumph too, for pomp and state,
Did proudest Romans emulate:
For as the aldermen of Rome,
Their foes at training overcome,
And not enlarging territory,
(As some, mistaken, write, in story)
Being mounted in their best array,
Upon a car, and who but they?
And follow'd with a world of tall lads,
That merry ditties troll'd, and ballads,
Did ride with many a good-morrow,

Crying, hey for our town, through the borough;
So when this triumph drew so nigh,

They might particulars descry,
They never saw two things so pat,
In all respects, as this and that.
First, he that led the cavalcate
Wore a sow-gelder's flagellate,
On which he blew as strong a levet,
As well-feed lawyer on his brev'ate,

When over one another's heads

They charge (three ranks at once) like Sweeds. Next pans and kettles of all keys,

From trebles down to double base;

And after them upon a nag,

That might pass for a forehand stag,
A Cornet rode, and on his staff

A smock display'd did proudly wave;

Then bagpipes of the loudest drones,
With snuffling, broken-winded tones,
Whose blasts of air, in pockets shut,
Sound filthier than from the gut,
And makes a viler noise than swine,
In windy weather, when they whine.
Next one upon a pair of panniers,

Full fraught with that which, for good manners,
Shall here be nameless, mixt with grains,
Which he dispens'd among the swains,
And busily upon the crowd

At random round about bestow'd.
Then, mounted on a horned horse,
One bore a gauntlet and gilt spurs,
Ty'd to the pummel of a long sword
He held reverst, the point turn'd downward:
Next after, on a raw-bon'd steed,
The conqu'ror's Standard-bearer rid,
And bore aloft before the champion
A petticoat display'd, and rampant;
Near whom the Amazon triumphant
Bestrid her beast, and on the rump on't
Sat face to tail, and bum to bum,
The warrior whilom overcome,
Arm'd with a spindle and a distaff,
Which as he rode she made him twist off,
And when he loiter'd, o'er her shoulder
Chastis'd the reformado soldier.
Before the Dame, and round about,
March'd whifflers, and staffiers on foot,
With lacquies, grooms, valets, and pages,
In fit and proper equipages;

Of whom some torches bore, some links,

Before the proud virago minx,

That was both Madam and a Don,

Like Nero's Sporus, or Pope Joan;

And at fit periods the whole rout

Set up their throats with clam'rous shout.
The Knight transported, and the Squire,
Put up their weapons, and their ire;
And Hudibras, who us'd to ponder
On such sights with judicious wonder,
Could hold no longer to impart
His an'madversions, for his heart.

Quoth he, in all my life, till now,
I ne'er saw so profane a shew;
It is a Paganish invention,

Which Heathen writers often mention;
And he who made it had read Goodwin,
Or Ross, or Cælius Rhodogine,
With all the Grecian Speeds and Stows,
That best describe those ancient shews;
And has observ'd all fit decorums
We find describ'd by old historians:
For as the Roman conqueror,
That put an end to foreign war,
Ent'ring the town in triumph for it,
Bore a slave with him in his chariot;
So this insulting female brave
Carries, behind her here, a slave:
And as the ancients long ago,
When they in field defy'd the foe,

Hung out their mantles della guerre,

So her proud Standard-bearer here,

Waves on his spear, in dreadful manner,

A Tyrian petticoat for banner.

Next links and torches, heretofore
Still borne before the emperor:
And as in antique triumph, eggs
Were borne for mystical intrigues;
There's one in truncheon, like a ladle,
That carries eggs too, fresh or addle;
And still at random, as he goes,
Among the rabble-rout bestows.

Quoth Ralpho, you mistake the matter;
For all th' antiquity you smatter
Is but a riding us'd of course,

When the grey mare's the better horse;
When o'er the breeches greedy women
Fight, to extend their vast dominion,
And in the cause impatient Grizel
Has drubb'd her husband with bull's pizzle,
And brought him under covert-baron,
To turn her vassal with a murrain;
When wives their sexes shift, like hares,
And ride their husbands, like night-mares,
And they in mortal battle vanquish'd,
Are of their charter disenfranchis'd,
And by the right of war, like Gills,
Condemn'd to distaff, horns, and wheels:
For when men by their wives are cow'd,
Their horns of course are understood.

DESCRIPTION OF SIdrophel AND
WHACKUM.

Quoth Hudibras, the case is clear
The Saints may 'mploy a conjurer,
As thou hast prov'd it by their practise ;
No argument like matter of fact is:
And we are best of all led to
Men's principles, by what they do.
Then let us straight advance in quest
Of this profound gymnosophist,
And as the Fates and he advise,
Pursue, or waive this enterprise.
This said, he turn'd about his steed,
And eftsoons on th' adventure rid;
Where leave we him and Ralph awhile,
And to the conj'rer turn our style,
To let our reader understand
What's useful of him beforehand.
He had been long t'wards mathematics,
Optics, philosophy, and statics,
Magic, horoscopy, astrology,
And was old dog at physiology;
But as a dog that turns the spit
Bestirs himself, and plies his feet
To climb the wheel, but all in vain,
His own weight brings him down again,
And still he's in the self-same place
Where at his setting out he was;
So in the circle of the arts
Did he advance his nat'ral parts,

Till falling back still, for retreat,
He fell to juggle, cant, and cheat:
For as those fowls that live in water
Are never wet, he did but smatter;
Whate'er he labour'd to appear,
His understanding still was clear.
Yet none a deeper knowledge boasted,
Since old Hodge Bacon, and Bob Grosted.

Th' intelligible world he knew,
And all men dream on't, to be true,
That in this world's not a wart
That has not there a counterpart;
Nor can there on the face of ground
An individual beard be found
That has not, in that foreign nation,
A fellow of the self-same fashion;
So cut, so colour'd, and so curl'd,
As those are in th' inferior world.
He'd read Dee's prefaces before,
The Devil, and Euclid, o'er and o'er;
And all th' intrigues 'twixt him and Kelly,
Lescus and th' Emperor, would tell ye:
But with the inoon was more familiar
Than e'er was almanack well-willer;
Her secrets understood so clear,
That some believ'd he had been there;
Knew when she was in fittest mood
For cutting corns, or letting blood:
When for anointing scabs or itches,
Or to the bum applying leeches;
When sows and bitches may be spay'd,
And in what sign best cyder's made;
Whether the wane be, or increase,
Best to set garlic, or sow pease;

Who first found out the man o' th' moon,

That to th' ancients was unknown;
How many dukes, and earls, and peers,
Are in the planetary spheres;

Their airy empire, and command,

Their sev'ral strengths by sea and land;
What factions they've, and what they drive at

In public vogue, or what in private:
With what designs and interests

Each party manages contests.
He made an instrument to know

If the moon shine at full or no;

That would, as soon as e'er she shone, straight, Whether 'twere day or night demonstrate; Tell what her d'ameter to an inch is,

And prove that she's not made of green cheese.

It wou'd demonstrate, that the man in
The moon's a sea Mediterranean;

And that it is no dog or bitch

That stands behind him at his breech,

But a huge Caspian sea or lake,

With arms, which men for legs mistake;
How large a gulf his tail composes,

And what a goodly bay his nose is;
How many German leagues by th' scale
Cape Snout's from Promontory Tail.
He made a planetary gin,

Which rats would run their own heads in,

And come on purpose to be taken,
Without th' expense of cheese or bacon;
With lustrings he would counterfeit
Maggots that crawl on dish of meat;
Quote moles and spots on any place
O' th' body, by the index face;
Detect lost maidenheads by sneezing,
Or breaking wind of dames, or pissing;
Cure warts and corns, with application
Of medicines to th' imagination:
Fright agues into dogs, and scare,
With rhymes, the tooth-ach and catarrh;
Chase evil spirits away by dint
Of sickle, horseshoe, hollow flint;
Spit fire out of a walnut-shell,
Which made the Roman slaves rebel;
And fire a mine in China here,
With sympathetic gunpowder.
He knew whats'ever's to be known,

But much more than he knew would own.
What med'cine 'twas that Paracelsus
Could make a man with, as he tells us;
What figur'd slates are best to make,
On wat'ry surface, duck or drake;
What bowling-stones, in running race
Upon a board, have swiftest pace;
Whether a pulse beat in the black
List of a dappled louse's back;
If systole or dyastole move
Quickest when he's in wrath, or love;
When two of them do run a race,
Whether they gallop, trot, or pace;
How many scores a flea will jump,
Of his own length from head to rump,
Which Socrates and Chærephon
In vain assay'd so long agone;
Whether his snout a perfect nose is,
And not an elephant's proboscis ;
How many different species
Of maggots breed in rotten cheese;
And which are next of kin to those
Engender'd in a chandler's nose;
Or those not seen, but understood,
That live in vinegar and wood.

A paltry wretch he had, half starv'd,
That him in place of zany serv'd,
Hight Whachum, bred to dash and draw,
Not wine, but more unwholesome law;
To make 'twixt words and lines huge gaps,
Wide as meridians in maps;

To squander paper, and spare ink,

Or cheat men of their words, some think.
From this, by merited degrees,
He'd to more high advancement rise,

To be an under-conjurer,

Or journeyman astrologer:

His business was to pump and wheedle,
And men with their own keys unriddle;
To make them to themselves give answers,
For which they pay the necromancers;
To fetch and carry 'ntelligence

Of whom, and what, and where, and whence,

And all discoveries disperse
Among the whole pack of conjurers;
What cut-purses have left with them,
For the right owners to redeem,
And what they dare not vent, find out,
To gain themselves and th' art repute;
Draw figures, schemes, and horoscopes,
Of Newgate, Bridewell, brokers' shops,
Of thieves ascendant in the cart,
And find out all by rules of art;
Which way a serving man, that's run
With clothes or money away, is gone;
Who pick'd a fob at holding-forth,
And where a watch, for half the worth,
May be redeem'd; or stolen plate
Restor'd at conscionable rate.
Besides all this, he serv'd his master
In quality of poetaster,

And rhymes appropriate could make
To ev'ry month i' th' almanack;
When terms begin and end could tell,
With their returns, in doggerel;
When the Exchequer opes and shuts,
And sowgelder with safety cuts;
When men may eat and drink their fill,
And when be temp'rate, if they will;
When use, and when abstain from vice,
Figs, grapes, phlebotomy, and spice.
And as in prison mean rogues beat
Hemp for the service of the great,
So Whachum beat his dirty brains
T' advance his master's fame and gains,
And, like the Devil's oracles,
Put into doggrel rhymes his spells,
Which over ev'ry month's blank page
I' th' almanack, strange bilks presage.
He would an elegy compose

On maggots squeez'd out of his nose;
In lyric numbers write an ode on
His mistress, eating a black pudden;
And when imprison'd air escap'd her,
It puft him with poetic rapture.
His sonnets charm'd th' attentive crowd,
By wide-mouth'd mortal troll'd aloud,
That, circled with his long ear'd guests,
Like Orpheus look'd among the beasts;
A carman's horse could not pass by,
But stood ty'd up to poetry;
No porter's burden pass'd along,
But serv'd for burden to his song:
Each window like a pill'ry appears,

With heads thrust through, nail'd by the ears;
All trades run in as to the sight

Of monsters, or their dear delight

The gallow-tree, when cutting purse

Breeds bus'ness for heroic verse,

Which none does hear but would have hung
T' have been the theme of such a song.

Those two together long had liv'd
In mansion prudently contriv'd,
Where neither tree nor house could bar
The free detection of a star;

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