And as a fox, with hot pursuit
Chac'd through a warren, cafts about
To fave his credit, and among
Dead vermin on a gallows hung,
And while the dogs run underneath,
Efcap'd (by counterfeiting death)
Not out of cunning, but a train
Of atoms juftling in his brain,
As learn'd philofophers give out;
So Sidrophello cast about,
And fell to 's wonted trade again,
To feign himself in earnest flain :
Firft ftretch'd out one leg, then another,
And, feeming in his breast to smother
A broken figh; quoth he, Where am I?
Alive, or dead? or which way came. I
Through fo immenfe a space fo foon?
But now I thought myself i' th' moon,
And that a monster, with huge whiskers,
More formidable than a Switzer's,
My body through and through had drill'd,
And Whachum by my fide had kill'd;
Had cross-examin'd both our hofe,
And plunder'd all we had to lofe :
Look, there he is! I fee him now,
And feel the place I am run through:
And there lies Whachum by my fide
Stone dead, and in his own blood dy'd.
Oh! oh! with that he fetch'd a groan,
And fell again into a fwoon,
Shut both his eyes, and stopt his breath,
And to the life out-acted death,
That Hudibras, to all appearing,
Believ'd him to be dead as herring.
He held it now no longer safe
To tarry the return of Ralph,
But rather leave him in the lurch:
Thought he, he has abus'd our Church,
Refus'd to give himself one firk
To carry on the Public Work;
Defpis'd our Synod-men like dirt,
And made their Difcipline his fport;
Divulg'd the fecrets of their Claffes,
And their Conventions prov'd high-places;
Difparag'd their tythe-pigs, as Pagan,
And fet at nought their cheese and bacon;
Rail'd at their Covenant, and jeer'd
Their reverend Parfons, to my beard;
For all which scandals to be quit
At once, this juncture falls out fit.
I'll make him henceforth to beware,
And tempt my fury if he dare:
He must at least hold up his hand,
By twelve freeholders to be scann'd,
Who, by their skill in palmistry,
Will quickly read his destiny,
And make him glad to read his lesson,
Or take a turn for 't at the Seffion,
Unless his light and gifts prove truer
Than ever yet they did, I'm fure;
For if he 'fcape with whipping now,
'Tis more than he can hope to do;
And that will difengage my Conscience
Of th' obligation, in his own sense:
I'll make him now by force abide
What he by gentle means deny'd,
To give my honour fatisfaction,
And right the Brethren in the action.
This being refolv'd, with equal fpeed
And conduct he approach'd his steed,
And, with activity unwont,
Affay'd the lofty beast to mount;
Which once atchiev'd, he spurr'd his palfry,
To get from th' enemy and Ralph free;
Left danger, fears, and foes behind,
And beat, at least three lengths, the wind.
Ecce iterum Crifpinus.
WELL, Sidrophel, though 'tis in vain
To tamper with your crazy brain,
Without trepanning of your fcull,
As often as the moon 's at full,
'Tis not amifs, ere ye 're giv'n o'er, To try one defperate medicine more;
*This Epiftle was published ten years after the Third Canto of this Second Part, to which it is now annexed, namely, in the year 1674; and is faid, in a Key to a burlefque poem of Mr. Butler's, published 1706, p. 13, to have been occafioned by Sir Paul Neal, a conceited virtuofo, and member of the Royal Society, who conftantly affirmed that Mr. Butler was not the Author of Hudibras, which gave rife to this Epiftle; and by fome he has been taken for the real Sidrophel of the Poem. This was the gentleman who, I am told, made a great difcovery of an elephant in the moon, which, upon examination, proved to be no other than a moufe which had mistaken its way, and got into his telescope. See The Elephant in the Moon, in the fecond volume of Butler's Poems.
For, where your cafe can be no worse,
The desperat'ft is the wisest course.
Is 't poffible that you, whofe ears
"Are of the tribe of Iffachar's,
And might (with equal reafon) either
For merit, or extent of leather,
With William Pryn's, before they were
Retrench'd and crucify'd, compare,
Should yet be deaf against a noise
So roaring as the public voice?
That speaks your virtues free and loud,
And openly in every crowd,
As loud as one that fings his part
Ta wheel-barrow or turnip-cart,
Or your new nick'd-nam'd old invention
To cry green-haftings with an engine;
(As if the vehemence had stunn'd,
And torn your drum-heads with the found)
And, 'cause your folly 's now no news,
But overgrown, and out of use,
Persuade yourself there's no fuch matter,
But that 'tis vanish'd out of Nature;
When Folly, as it grows in years,
The more extravagant appears;
For who but you could be poffeft
|
