When Hudibras, whose stubborn blows
Deny'd his bones that soft repofe,
Lay ftill, expecting worfe and more,
Stretch'd out at length upon the floor;
And, though he shut his eyes as fast
As if he 'ad been to fleep his last,
Saw all the fhapes that fear or wizards
Do make the Devil wear for vizards;
And, pricking up his ears, to hark
If he could hear, too, in the dark,

Was first invaded with a groan,

And after, in a feeble tone,

Thefe trembling words: Unhappy wretch,
What haft thou gotten by this fetch,
Or all thy tricks, in this new trade,
Thy holy Brotherhood o' th' blade?
By fauntering ftill on fome adventure,
And growing to thy horse a Centaur ?
To ftuff thy fkin with fwelling knobs

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Of cruel and hard-wooded drubs ?

For ftill thou 'aft had the worst on 't yet,

Believ'd it was fome drolling sprite

That staid upon the guard that night,

And one of those he 'ad feen, and felt
The drubs he had fo freely dealt;
When, after a short pause and groan,

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The doleful Spirit thus went on;

This 'tis t' engage with Dogs and Bears

(Thought he, this devil's full of malice,

And, when thou 'adft bravely won the day,

Wast fain to steal thyself away.

(I fee, thought he, this fhameless elf

Would fain fteal me, too, from myself,

That impudently dares to own
What I have fuffer'd for and done)

And now, but venturing to betray,

Haft met with vengeance the fame way.
Thought he, how does the devil know
What 'twas that I defign'd to do?
Y

VOL. I.

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His

Thefe rallying devils do no hurt.
With that he rous'd his drooping heart,
And hastily cry'd out, What art ?
A wretch (quoth he) whom want of
Has brought to this unhappy place.

grace

I do believe thee, quoth the Knight;
Thus far I'm fure thou 'rt in the right:
And know what 'tis that troubles thee,
Better than thou haft guefs'd of me.

Thou art fome paltry, black-guard sprite,
Condemn'd to drudgery in the night;

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Thou haft no work to do in th' house,

Nor halfpenny to drop in fhoes;

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Without the raifing of which fum

You dare not be fo troublefome

To pinch the flatterns black and blue,
For leaving you their work to do.
This is your business, good Pug-Robin,
And your diversion dull dry-bobbing,

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T'en

T'entice fanatics in the dirt,

And wash them clean in ditches for 't;

Of which conceit you are so proud,

At every jeft you laugh aloud,

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As now you would have done by me,
But that I barr'd your raillery.

Sir (quoth the Voice) ye 're no fuch sophi As you would have the world judge of ye. If you defign to weigh our talents

I' th' ftandard of your own falfe balance,
Or think it poffible to know

Us ghosts, as well as we de you ;
We, who have been the everlasting
Companions of your drubs and bafting,
And never left you in contest

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With male or female, man or beast;
But prov'd as true t' ye, and entire,
In all adventures, as your Squire.

Quoth he, That may be said as true

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By th' idleft pug of all your crew :

For none could have betray'd us worse
Than thofe allies of ours and yours.

But I have fent him for a token
To your low-country Hogen-Mogen,

To whofe infernal fhores I hope

He'll fwing like skippers in a rope :

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And, if ye 'ave been more just to me

(As I am apt to think) than he, I am afraid it is as true

What th' ill-affected fay of you--

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Ye 'ave 'fpous'd the Covenant and Cause,
By holding up your cloven paws.

Sir (quoth the Voice) 'tis true, I grant,
We made, and took, the Covenant;
But that no more concerns the Caufe,
Than other perjuries do the laws,

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Which, when they 're prov'd in open court,
Wear wooden peccadillo's for 't :

And that's the reafon Covenanters

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Hold up their hands, like rogues at bars.
I fee (quoth Hudibras) from whence
Thefe fcandals of the Saints commence,
That are but natural effects

Of Satan's malice, and his fects',

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Thofe fpider-faints, that hang by threads

Spun out o' th' entrails of their heads.

Sir (quoth the Voice) that may as true

And properly be said of you,

Whofe talents may compare with either,

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Or both the other put together:

For all the Independents do,

Is only what you forc'd them to;
You, who are not content alone
With tricks to put the devil down,
But must have armies rais'd to back
The Gofpel-work you undertake;
As if artillery and edge-tools,

Were th' only engines to fave fouls :
While he, poor devil, has no power
By force to run down and devour;

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Has