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Hudibras Redivivus

or, a Burlesque poem on the times. The Second Edition. To which is added, An Apology, and some other Improvements throughout the Whole [by Edward Ward]

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3

CANTO V.

When thus my Friend had let me know
The Diff'rence 'twixt the High and Low,
By which a Man might eas'ly see
True Zeal from canting Knavery,
And learn most rightly to distinguish
The Mod'rate from the Church that's English.
His Bus'ness calling him aside,
I parted with my Rev'rend Guide,
Who left me now to walk, and ponder
On many Things that rais'd my Wonder;

4

When (after I was thus forsaken)
A thoughtful Turn or two I'd taken,
For th'Benefit of Rumination,
On Matters worth Consideration;
I bid adieu to th'Holy Ile,
And wander'd from the awful Pile;
Down Ludgate-Street I gently strol'd,
Where Helps for blinking Age are sold,
And where Quack Surgeon, or Physician,
That doubts of Harvey's Proposition,
May also see, for Confirmation,
The Blood of Fish in Circulation.
Thus scated I with Care along
The slip'ry Stones, amidst the Throng,
Kept level for old Cuckolds Corns,
Whose Feet, as well as Heads, wear Horns:
It is but Justice that each Toe
Should the same Pennance undergo,
Because they treach'rously together
Conspire to carr'us God knows whether,

5

Whilst Cuckold-makers who are crafty,
Graft on our Antlets with more Safety.
I shot the Porch that bears the Name
Of good King Lud, of ancient Fame;
Within whose Monument lies bury'd
A living Tribe, by Fortune worry'd,
First squeez'd, then hither haul'd and hurry'd:
A greater Number, let me tell ye,
Than dwelt in Trojan Horse's Belly:
Besides the Legeons that they wear,
In matted Locks of uncomb'd Hair,
And listed Troops of eight-leg'd Strolers,
That march from Wrist-bands to their Collars.
What Pity 'tis, thought I, that Men
Should live, like Sheep, within a Pen!
Or else, like Owles, that hate the Light,
Lie hidden in perpetual Night!
There forc'd to spend their Days in Lousing,
Debauching, Gaming, and Carousing,

6

To th'Shame and Scandal of a Nation,
When Fighting is so much in Fashion!
These Stony Traps the Laws have set
To catch the poor Unfortunate,
Thought I, most strangely disagree
With boasted Christian Charity.
If Men, for Poverty alone,
Must wear such Dublets made of Stone;
We wrong the Faith that we pretend to,
And punish those we should be kind to;
For Heav'n Commands us o'er and o'er
To be assisting to the Poor,
And not take Liberty from those
Who've nothing else to give or lose;
And make their Misery more compleat,
Which is already much too great.
Thus persecute our Fellow-Creature,
Ruin'd perhaps by's own good Nature.

7

The King of Christians gave his Bosome
To Lazarus, when poor and lo'hsome,
But modern Christians now, instead,
Would heap more Mis'ries on his Head,
And give him Stones, instead of Bread.
From thence, along that tipling Street,
Distinguish'd by the Name of Fleet,
Where Tavern-Signs hang thicker far,
Than Trophies down at Westminster;
And ev'ry Bacchanalian Landlord
Displays his Ensign, or his Standard,
Bidding Defiance to each Brother,
As if at Wars with one another:
Their only Quarrel being, who
Can with most Art and Int'rest Brew;
That is, in short, about who is't
That can the most deceive his Guest:
Draw the worst Wine, and thrive the best.

8

I pass'd the Bridge, whose Sides were loaden
With Holland Socks, and hot bak'd Puddin,
And where nice Epicures may see
Knit Night-caps, and rare Furmity;
Plaisters for Corns, and Well-fleet Oysters,
Standing in Rows, and some in Clusters.
All girt with Chaps, Men, Boys, and Women,
Traps, Divers, Punks, and Serjeants, Yeomen;
Some chaff'ring for their Feet or Toes,
Some judging Oysters by the Nose,
And others buying Balls for Cloths.
So have I seen on Board of Ship,
Some knawing Beeff, some spewing Flip;
Another smoaking Indian Fuel,
A sick Man sipping Water-Gruel:
Some others chewing Bisket-Bread
Round one that's lousing Shirt or Head:
Some making of a Sea-man's Pye,
And others picking Toes just by:

9

A curious Mixture to invite
A squeamish Lady's Appetite.
From thence I gently pass'd along,
Where num'rous Hierogliphicks hung;
Such Whims that would, I dare engage ye,
Have puzzl'd an Egyptian Magi:
A Swan, a Mortar and a Pestle,
And in the Air a swinging Castle;
A Shopful of Mundungus Ware,
A Grey-Hound mouthing of a Hare,
Who wins the Course from all the rest,
Because his Master draws the best.
Three Tuns, that very lately started,
A huge white Horse that never farted.
A Flemish Boar in a blue Jerkin,
One Tun no bigger than a Firkin.
A Leg, that as some People say,
Instead of running, hopp'd away.

10

A Bishop's Mitre and a Horn,
Both which may at one time be worn;
For since, like us, our Prelates Marry,
Why not their Wives, like ours, miscarry?
A Black Bull's-Head, a Dragon Green,
A King, two Devils, and a Queen;
A brace of Logg'r-Heads o'er the Porch,
To guard the Clock, and grace the Church,
Which serve to shew each Lady bright,
That stroles that way by Day or Night,
That Wooden Men, like Brasen Whore,
By Clock-work Art, obtain the Pow'r,
To knock four Times within the Hour;
That is, can thump about the Quarters
As roundly as two living Porters:
Who then can blame the Maids, that under
Stand gaping at so strange a Wonder,
To see two Block-heads made of Wood,
Perform like any Flesh and Blood.

11

As I was taking this my View,
Like Country Hodge at Barthol'mew,
Observing here a Temple Fop,
And there a Cuckold in his Shop;
A Cutler fixing up Sword Hilts,
Informers dogging Punks and Jilts;
A Gold-smith telling o'er his Cash,
A Pipping-monger selling Trash;
One Sempstress in her Hut a stitching,
Another just strol'd out a B---ing;
A Country Ruddy-fac'd Attorney
Just lighted from his dirty Journey,
In stubborn Coat of Drab-de-berry,
And wrinkl'd Boots all over Miry;
A huge long Sword, with which he Vapours,
In's Hand a Wallet stuff'd with Papers,
To some old Inn of Chanc'ry trudging,
In which he keeps a dusty Lodging,
Lock'd closely up from Term to Term,
Where Fleas, instead of Clients, swarm,

12

And Cobweb-Emblems of his Trade,
Hang full of Pris'ners o'er his Head.
As I was thus amus'd to see
This Mixture of Humanity,
Who should step by, but Doctor Trotter,
That Astrological Promoter,
Reeling from E---ms's Diapente,
Advanc'd at least to nine and twenty,
With a long Cole-black Fury's Wig on,
And flaming Nose, like fiery Trigon:
He sometimes run a-head straight forward,
Then tack'd from Southward to the Norward;
And sometimes like a wand'ring Star,
Mov'd Retrograde, then Circular:
Finding himself in Dangers tost,
At last, for fear he should be lost,
He anchor'd safely at a Post:
With that, said I, old Friend, how chear ye,
I'm glad to see you here so merry:

13

Come, let's go drink some Turky Puddle;
'Tis Cordial for a swimming Noddle:
Thou'lt grow, with one half Pint of Coffee,
As sober as a Persian Sophy.
With that, I took him by the Arm,
And led the Wizard out of Harm,
Who, for my Kindness, was as Civil
As Doctor Faustus to the Devil.
So Cheek by Jole away we went,
Like old Nick, and the Earl of Kent,
'Till to a Coffee-House we came,
To quench the Doctor's liquid Flame,
Where at a Table down we sat,
And gravely talk'd of this and that;
Drank Coffee, 'till the Doctor found
The World that turn'd so lately round,
Had of a suddain stopp'd its Motion,
In spight to the Copernian Notion;
When the reviving Fumes that rose
From scolding Ninny-broth to's Nose,

14

Had soberiz'd his Brains a little,
And made him fit for Tattle Tittle.
(Pray let not this my Transposition
Incur your Censure or Derision:
Poets are apt to change a Letter,
Or Word, to make their Rime the better:
For when we Pegasus bestride,
And after Wit a Hunting ride,
Our noisy Lines would all run single,
Were they not coupl'd by their Jingle.)
I say, when Coffee piping hot,
Had rais'd the Man, and cur'd the Sot,
And by its Crust-burnt Excellencies,
Restor'd the Conj'rer to his Senses;
Doctor, said I, then bowing low,
You, I, and all the Kingdom, know
Your're famous in your Generation,
And learn'd in ev'ry Constellation;
I therefore beg you'll answer me
One Question in Astrology,

15

Because I'm sure, were Albumazer,
Or Ptolomy, the Plannet-gazer,
Tom Saffold, Lilly, or old Coley,
Now living, none could tell more truly;
Therefore I beg, that you'll impart
One Spec'men of your noble Art.
With that, the Doctor rubb'd his Eyes,
Then looking at me twice or thrice,
At last Majestically cry'd,
In what would you be satify'd?
Pray state your Question, and be free, Sir,
If Art can solve it, I am he, Sir,
That knows as much, and am as Wise,
As all the Plannets in the Skies:
Long have I travell'd, Night and Day,
That Heav'nly Path, the Milky Way;
Counted the Stars on ev'ry side,
Shook Hands with Time, survey'd the Tide,

16

And have as often, by my Soul,
Drove Charles's Wain about the Pole:
Nay, stood a Tip-toe on the Horn
Of Aries, and of Capricorn;
View'd all the Heavens, where I found
The Stars like Whirligigs go round;
Visited all the bless'd Abodes,
And drank rich Nectar with the Gods;
But by my Life, a merry Bowl
Of Elms's Punch, is worth it all.
These things are all to me as common,
As Scolding to a Basket-Woman.
I'd have you think I'm not the Ass
That deals in Fern-Seed, and a Glass,
And to deceive the World, does brag on
His green, his yellow, and black Dragon;
That dwells in Allies, God knows where,
Down seven Steps, and up one Stair:
I'm no poor, ignorant, dull Liar;
No Mene Tekel Prophesier;

17

No Doctor Case, no riming Noddy,
But one who knows, thro' painful Study,
What's what, as well as any Body.
Therefore, pray state your Question right,
With all the necessary Light
That you can give, or I require,
And you shall find, as you desire,
I'll tell you Truth, or I'm a Liar.
Doctor, said I, I must agree
You've made the Heav'ns your A, B, C,
And understand th'Egyptian Knowledge
Beyond all Gresham's learned Colledge:
Therefore I'm sure you cannot miss
Answ'ring my Question, which is this:
Full two Months since I did invite
Three Friends to Sup with me one Night,
And when we'd plentifully eat,
A Bowl of Punch was next my Treat,
Made of right French, upon my Word,
Good, says the Doctor, by the Lord;

18

And so, said I, we sipp'd our Fuddle,
As Women in the Straw do Caudle,
'Till ev'ry Man had drown'd his Noddle;
And when they found their Heads grew light,
They thank'd their Host, and bid good Night:
But the next Morn, soon after Rising,
I found my Punch-Bowl Ladle missing.
Now, if the Plannets can inform ye
Who 'twas that stole the Ladle from me,
I'll own Astrology's amazing,
And that the Stars are worth your gazing.
But, Sir, replies the Doctor, then
Of what Religion were these Men?
For Plannets, like to sov'reign Princes,
Have very diff'rent Influences,
And make a strong or weak Impression,
As Mortals differ in Perswasion.
One, said I, was a Church-Man, true
As ever sat in Church-War'n's Pew,
And went twice ev'ry Sabbath-Day
To hear the Parson Preach and Pray:

19

One that has long paid Scot and Lot,
And deals each Year for G*d knows what.
Poh, crys the Doctor, never think
A Church-Man Knavish in his Drink;
He's a true Trout that scorns, Ads-fish,
To Porridge beg, and steal the Dish.
Go on, I'm sure he's just and true,
The Ladle lies 'twixt t'other two.
The next, said I, was a Dissenter,
No Saint, but one that dares to venture
At Night to take off his Decanter,
Yet shuns both Common-Pray'r, and Lawn,
To hear a Hide-bound Block-head yawn,
And ev'ry Sunday thinks 'tis fitting
To crowd in at a hum-drum Meeting,
And there in Holy Exercise,
Strain hard to shew distorted Eyes,
Which every now and then, by fits,
Are strangely troubl'd with the Whites;
Yet all his Neighbours do declare
His Dealings are profoundly fair,

20

And that he scorns, tho' ne'er so little,
To wrong the Rich, or rob the Spittle,
But's nicely Honest to a Tittle.
The Doctor turning up his Eyes,
And grimly looking, thus replies:
I know not what to think of him,
'Tis rare to find a Mill-stone swim:
However, I'll suspend my Censure,
To hear what t'other was, and then, Sir,
I'll freely give my final Answer.
Said I, the third Man was, in Troth,
A trimming Christian 'twixt 'em both;
A modern, strange, bifarious Creature,
By Knaves and Fools call'd Moderator.
Nouns, crys the Doctor, in a Fury,
That was the Rogue, I can assure ye:
You need not speak another Word, Sir,
He stole the Ladle, by the Lord, Sir;
The Plannets punctually declare it,
The Stars are ready all to swear it:

21

I'm sure, as right as Man can guess it;
Tax him but home, and he'll confess it;
He's a rare Mes-mate for the Devil,
And makes a long Spoon of your Ladle.
But now you know how Matters lie,
Pray take this Counsel by the by.
Be sure you never trust herea'ter,
In any Case by Land or Water,
The Value of a Rope of Onions
With him that halts 'twixt two Opinions,
For if you do, you'll find (my Friend)
Your self the Looser in the End.
Pleas'd with the Doctor's lucky Notion,
I thank'd him kindly for his Caution;
And well contented with his Answer,
Took formal Leave o'th' Nigromancer.