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 as a collier; As like as hypocrites in show, 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 follow'd 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,
But of pernicious consequence
To government, which they suppose Can never be upheld in prose; 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 upright Cerdon next advanc'd, Of all his race the valiant'st: Cerdon the Great, renown'd in song, Like Here'les, for repair of wrong: He rais'd the low, and fortify'd The weak against the strongest side: Ill has he read, that never hit,
On him in Muses' deathless writ.
He had a weapon keen and fierce,
That through a bull-hide shield would pierce,
And cut it in a thousand pieces,
Though tougher than the Knight of Greece has,
With whom his black-thumb'd ancestor,
Was comrade in the ten years war:
For when the restless Greeks sat down
So many years, before Troy town, And were renown'd, as Homer writes, For well soal'd boots, no less than fights; They ow'd that glory only to
His ancestor, that made them so.
Fast friend he was to reformation,
Until 'twas worn quite out of fashion;
Next rectifier of wry law,
And would make three t' cure one flaw. 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,
Some other knights, was true of this, He and his horse were of a piece.
One spirit did inform them both, The self-same vigour, fury, wroth: Yet he was much the rougher part, And always had a harder heart; Although the horse had been of those That fed on man's flesh, as fame goes; Strange food for horse! and yet, alas, It may be true; for flesh is grass. Sturdy he was, and no less able Than Hercules to clean a stable: As great a drover, and as great A critic too, in hog or neat.
He ript the womb up of his mother,
Dame Tellus, 'cause she wanted fodder
(After they'd almost por❜d out their eyes,)
Did very learnedly decide
The bus'ness on the horse's side,
And prov'd not only horse, but cows, Nay pigs were of the elder house: For beasts, when man was but a piece Of earth himself, did th' earth possess.
These worthies were the chief that led
The combatants, each in the head Of his command, with arms and rage, Ready and longing to engage. The num'rous rabble was drawn out Of sev'ral counties round about, From villages remote, and shires Of east and western hemispheres: From foreign parishes and regions, Of diff'rent manners, speech, religions, Came men and mastiffs; some to fight For fame and honour, some for sight. And now the field of death, the lists Were enter'd by antagonists, And blood was ready to be broach'd, When Hudibras in haste approach'd,
With Squire and weapons to attack 'em;
But first thus from his horse bespake 'em : What rage, O citizens! what fury,
Doth you to these dire actions hurry?
What œstrum, what phrenetic mood
Makes you thus lavish of your blood.
While the proud Vies your trophies boast, And unreveng'd walks
What towns, what garrisons might you
With hazard of this blood subdue,
Which now y'are bent to throw away
In vain, untriumphable fray?
Shall saints in civil bloodshed wallow
Of saints, and let the cause lie fallow? The cause, for which we fought and swore So boldly, shall we now give o'er? Then, because quarrels still are seen With oaths and swearings to begin, The solemn league and covenant Will seem a mere God-damn-me-rant; And we that took it, and have fought As lewd as drunkards that fall out: For as we make war for the king Against himself, the self-same thing, Some will not stick to swear we do For God, and for religion too:
For if bear-baiting we allow,
What good can reformation do?
The blood and treasure that's laid out,
Is thrown away, and goes for nought.
Are these the fruits o' th' protestation,
The prototype or reformation,
Which all the saints, and some, since martyrs,
Join throats to cry the bishops down? Who having round begirt the palace, (As once a month they do the gallows,) As members gave the sign about, Set up their throats with hideous shout. When tinkers bawl'd aloud, to settle Church discipline, for patching kettle: No sow-gelder did blow his horn To geld a cat, but cry'd, Reform. The oyster-women lock'd their fish up, And trudg'd away, to cry, No Bishop. The mouse-trap men laid save-alls by, And 'gainst Evil Counsellors did cry.
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