But not how much; so well enough
Know you to charge, but not draw off;
For who without a cap and bauble,
Having subdu'd a bear and rabble,
And might with honour have come off,
Would put it to a second proof?
A politic exploit right fit
For Presbyterian zeal and wit.
Quoth Hudibras, That cuckoo's tone, Ralpho, thou always harp'st upon:
When thou at any thing wouldst rail,
Thou mak'st Presbytery thy scale
To take the height on 't, and explain
To what degree it is profane;
Whats'ever will not with (thy what d'ye call)
And dare thee to 't with all thy light.
Quoth Ralpho, Truly that is no
Hard matter for a man to do,
That has but any guts in 's brains,
And could believe it worth his pains;
But since you dare and urge me to it,
You'll find I've light enough to do it.
Synods are mystical bear-gardens,
Where elders, deputies, church-wardens,
And other members of the court,
Manage the Babylonish sport.
For prolocutor, scribe, and bear-ward,
Do differ only in a mere word;
Both are but sev'ral synagogues
Of carnal men, and bears and dogs;
Both antichristian assemblies,
To mischief bent as far's in them lies;
Both stave and tail, with fierce contests,
The one with men, the other beasts.
The diff'rence is, the one fights with
What are their orders, constitutions,
Church-censures, curses, absolutions?
But sev'ral mystic chains they make,
To tie poor Christians to the stake;
And then set heathen officers,
Instead of dogs, about their ears:
For to prohibit and dispense,
To find out or to make offence:
Of Hell and Heaven to dispose,
To play with souls at fast and loose;
To set what characters they please,
And mulcts on sin or godliness;
Reduce the church to gospel order,
By rapine, sacrilege, and murder;
To make Presbytery supreme,
And kings themselves submit to them:
And force all people, tho' against
Their consciences, to turn saints;
Must prove a pretty thriving trade,
When saints monopolists are made,
When pious frauds and holy shifts
Are dispensations and gifts,
Their godliness becomes mere ware,
And ev'ry synod but a fair.
Synods are whelps of th' inquisition,
A mungrel breed of like pernicion,
And growing up, became the sires
Of scribes, commissioners, and triers;
Whose bus'ness is by cunning sleight,
To cast a figure for men's light;
Bell and the Dragon's chaplains were
More moderate than these by far:
For they, poor knaves, were glad to cheat,
To get their wives and children meat;
But these will not be fobb'd off so,
They must have wealth and power too;
Or else with blood and desolation
They'll tear it out o' th' heart o' th' nation.
Sure these themselves from primitive
And heathen priesthood do derive,
When butchers were the only clerks,
Elders, and Presbyters of kirks,
Whose directory was to kill;
And some believe it is so still.
More haughty and severe in's place,
Than Gregory or Boniface.
Such church must surely be a monster
With may heads; for if we conster
What in th' Apocalypse, we find,
According to th' Apostle's mind,
'Tis that the whore of Babylon
With many heads did ride upon;
Which heads denote the sinful tribe
Of deacon, priest, lay-elder, scribe.
Lay-elder, Simeon to Levi,
Whose little finger is as heavy
As lions of patriarchs, prince-prelate,
Aud bishop-secular. This zealot
Hold, hold, quoth Hudibras, soft fire,
They say, does make sweet malt. Good Squire,
Festina lente, not too fast;
For haste, the proverb says, makes waste.
And make you keep to the question close,
And argue dialecticos.
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