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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| VIII. | CANTO VIII. |
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 | Hudibras Redivivus |  |
CANTO VIII.
When we came near the Rebel's School,
Where Treason's daily taught by Rule,
And sullen Knaves in Crowds agree
To sacrifice their Loyaltie;
And where our Monster of an Ape,
Was fond to shew his ugly Shape,
And to the list'ning Frape, dispense
The very Cream and Quint-essence
Of Envy, Pride, and Impudence.
A Throng of Searchers after Truth,
Were crowding at the Alley's Mouth,
Wherein the Conventicle stood,
Like Smithfield Droll-booth, built with Wood;
All shoving to obtain Admittance,
As if they hop'd for full Acquittance
Of all the Evils they had done
From that Time back to Forty One:
Some wrapp'd in Cloaks that had been wore
By Saints defunct, in Times of Yore:
Others in Coats, which by their Fashion,
Bore Date from Charles's Restauration,
Shelter'd beneath Umbrella Hats,
And Canoniz'd with Rose Cravats,
That by their Querpo's and their Quaints,
The World might read them to be Saints;
Their sweaty Rats-tail Hair hung down
To th'Shoulders from each addled Crown,
Kept thin, to cool their frantick Brains,
And comb'd as strait as Horses Manes;
Their Bodies almost Skelitons,
Reduc'd by Zeal to Skin and Bones,
So lean and envious in the Face,
As if they'd neither Grease nor Grace.
Two halting Saints, among the Crew,
With no small Pleasure did I view,
Each made upright with Patten-Shoe;
Whose Iron Stilts so plagu'd the Crowd,
That some I heard cry out aloud,
For Heav'n's sake, good Neighbour Barns,
Be careful how you crush my Corns.
Another Zealot, plagu'd with Gout,
In painful Fury roaring out,
I wish your Pattens at old Nick,
They've touch'd me to the very Quick.
Can you not tread, but stump my Toes
With your Vulcanian limping Shoes?
What! come you here to plague and spight us,
And vilely trample on the Righteous?
Thou art not fit for Christian Crowding;
Thou'rt Shod like any Roan or Dobbing.
Where Treason's daily taught by Rule,
And sullen Knaves in Crowds agree
To sacrifice their Loyaltie;
And where our Monster of an Ape,
Was fond to shew his ugly Shape,
And to the list'ning Frape, dispense
The very Cream and Quint-essence
Of Envy, Pride, and Impudence.
A Throng of Searchers after Truth,
Were crowding at the Alley's Mouth,
Wherein the Conventicle stood,
Like Smithfield Droll-booth, built with Wood;
13
As if they hop'd for full Acquittance
Of all the Evils they had done
From that Time back to Forty One:
Some wrapp'd in Cloaks that had been wore
By Saints defunct, in Times of Yore:
Others in Coats, which by their Fashion,
Bore Date from Charles's Restauration,
Shelter'd beneath Umbrella Hats,
And Canoniz'd with Rose Cravats,
That by their Querpo's and their Quaints,
The World might read them to be Saints;
Their sweaty Rats-tail Hair hung down
To th'Shoulders from each addled Crown,
Kept thin, to cool their frantick Brains,
And comb'd as strait as Horses Manes;
Their Bodies almost Skelitons,
Reduc'd by Zeal to Skin and Bones,
So lean and envious in the Face,
As if they'd neither Grease nor Grace.
14
With no small Pleasure did I view,
Each made upright with Patten-Shoe;
Whose Iron Stilts so plagu'd the Crowd,
That some I heard cry out aloud,
For Heav'n's sake, good Neighbour Barns,
Be careful how you crush my Corns.
Another Zealot, plagu'd with Gout,
In painful Fury roaring out,
I wish your Pattens at old Nick,
They've touch'd me to the very Quick.
Can you not tread, but stump my Toes
With your Vulcanian limping Shoes?
What! come you here to plague and spight us,
And vilely trample on the Righteous?
Thou art not fit for Christian Crowding;
Thou'rt Shod like any Roan or Dobbing.
The Women next, in awkward Dresses,
Made up the Feast of ugly Faces:
Some did in tatter'd Scarves advance,
Jagg'd like the Trophies won from France:
In Hoods too so defac'd and torn,
That had you seen 'em, you'd have sworn,
In Bleinheim Battel they'd been shotten,
Th'appear'd so ragged, and so rotten.
Some in green Aprons look'd more tite,
Others, like Flags of Truce, wore white,
Houss'ives that seem'd a Grain too light.
Made up the Feast of ugly Faces:
Some did in tatter'd Scarves advance,
Jagg'd like the Trophies won from France:
15
That had you seen 'em, you'd have sworn,
In Bleinheim Battel they'd been shotten,
Th'appear'd so ragged, and so rotten.
Some in green Aprons look'd more tite,
Others, like Flags of Truce, wore white,
Houss'ives that seem'd a Grain too light.
The good old Dames, among the rest,
Were all most primitively drest
In stiffen-body'd Russet Gowns,
And on their Heads old Steeple Crowns;
With pristine Pinners next their Faces,
Edg'd round with ancient scollop Laces,
Such as, my Antiquary says,
Were worn in old Queen Bess's Days,
In Ruffs, and fifty other ways:
Their wrinkled Necks were cover'd o'er
With Whisks of Lawn, by Grannums wore
In base Contempt of Bishops Sleeves,
As Simon Oxthodox believes.
These did not only serve to hide
Their wither'd Dugs, but seem'd beside
To be the chiefest of their Pride.
Some few indeed had got behind 'em
Their pretty Daughters, to attend 'em;
But they were dress'd and Furbulow'd
According to the present Mode;
In whom such Innocence appear'd,
That they no Prick of Conscience fear'd:
For those who never knew the Curse
Of Sin, can never dread Remorse.
Next these, came up a sore-leg'd Dutches,
Grunting and whining on her Crutches,
Who grin'd and look'd (the Lord defend her)
As hagged as the Witch of Endor;
Crying, when squeez'd, Good Folks, for Shame
Don't shove so hard against the Lame,
But shew some Mercy and good Nature
To a poor, ancient, crazy Creature,
Who sixty Years since, let me tell ye,
Have heard good Preaching in this Alley;
But now alass! I'm Lame and Ill,
And Deaf, yet by the L---d's good Will,
I love to see a Preacher still.
Were all most primitively drest
In stiffen-body'd Russet Gowns,
And on their Heads old Steeple Crowns;
With pristine Pinners next their Faces,
Edg'd round with ancient scollop Laces,
Such as, my Antiquary says,
Were worn in old Queen Bess's Days,
In Ruffs, and fifty other ways:
Their wrinkled Necks were cover'd o'er
With Whisks of Lawn, by Grannums wore
In base Contempt of Bishops Sleeves,
As Simon Oxthodox believes.
16
Their wither'd Dugs, but seem'd beside
To be the chiefest of their Pride.
Some few indeed had got behind 'em
Their pretty Daughters, to attend 'em;
But they were dress'd and Furbulow'd
According to the present Mode;
In whom such Innocence appear'd,
That they no Prick of Conscience fear'd:
For those who never knew the Curse
Of Sin, can never dread Remorse.
Next these, came up a sore-leg'd Dutches,
Grunting and whining on her Crutches,
Who grin'd and look'd (the Lord defend her)
As hagged as the Witch of Endor;
Crying, when squeez'd, Good Folks, for Shame
Don't shove so hard against the Lame,
But shew some Mercy and good Nature
To a poor, ancient, crazy Creature,
Who sixty Years since, let me tell ye,
Have heard good Preaching in this Alley;
17
And Deaf, yet by the L---d's good Will,
I love to see a Preacher still.
My Friend and I brought up the Rear,
Squeez'd in, and Elbow'd pretty near
The consecrated Tub, in which
The Gospel Emp'rick was to teach:
At length up step'd the formal Prater,
Who was of Countrey May-pole Stature,
Slender, Stiff-neck'd, extreamly Tall,
Long-fac'd, and very Lean withal.
No sooner had old Heart of Oak,
Upon a Peg hung Hat and Cloak,
But round their Sockets did he rowl
The little Windows of his Soul;
But soon we found his Eye-balls hid,
Turn'd up beneath each upper Lid,
And then he work'd about the Whites,
As Madmen do in raving Fits;
Reel'd in his Tub from side to side,
And wrung his Hands, as if he Cry'd.
His Beard from Shoul' to Shoulder rov'd,
And like the Clock-work Drummers mov'd;
He yawn'd, and gap'd, and gently stir'd
His Head, but yet said ne'er a Word;
Made many strange Geneva Faces,
And out did twenty Apes Grimaces.
At last his Tongue its Silence broke,
And thus the Rev'rend Spintext spoke:
Squeez'd in, and Elbow'd pretty near
The consecrated Tub, in which
The Gospel Emp'rick was to teach:
At length up step'd the formal Prater,
Who was of Countrey May-pole Stature,
Slender, Stiff-neck'd, extreamly Tall,
Long-fac'd, and very Lean withal.
No sooner had old Heart of Oak,
Upon a Peg hung Hat and Cloak,
But round their Sockets did he rowl
The little Windows of his Soul;
But soon we found his Eye-balls hid,
Turn'd up beneath each upper Lid,
And then he work'd about the Whites,
As Madmen do in raving Fits;
Reel'd in his Tub from side to side,
And wrung his Hands, as if he Cry'd.
18
And like the Clock-work Drummers mov'd;
He yawn'd, and gap'd, and gently stir'd
His Head, but yet said ne'er a Word;
Made many strange Geneva Faces,
And out did twenty Apes Grimaces.
At last his Tongue its Silence broke,
And thus the Rev'rend Spintext spoke:
O L---d, thou art, we know not what;
We only know what thou art not,
And from a Negative, infer
Thou'rt Good, because thou can'st not err:
Look down upon us, sinful Creatures,
So chang'd by our corrupted Natures,
That loe thou know'st we are not Men;
And if not so, what are we then?
I'll tell thee, if thou want'st to know,
We're Monsters bent to Satan's Bow,
Meer Brutes; ay, ay, and are we so?
Yes, very slothful, wicked Elves,
That love not Heaven, or our Selves,
Thou may'st believe me, L---d, for why?
Thou know'st I never tell a Lie;
Therefore we pray thee, at thy Leisure,
Bestow thy Grace, that Heav'nly Treasure,
Upon our Souls, that we may be
Such Good, Good, Good,—ah, let me see,
Defenders of those Holy Truths,
That came from out thy Prophets Mouths.
O strengthen us, thy lowly Creatures,
To trample down Lawn Sleeves and Mitres,
And High Church Nobles bind in Fetters;
Or if they prove for us too strong,
O let 'em live so long, so long,
'Till thy Elect shall flout and scoff 'em,
And all the World grow weary of 'em.
Humble the High Church, bring her low,
That she her wicked Pride may know;
And let the Book of Mass be brought,
With all its Popish Dregs, to nought;
And in its room, to thy great Glory,
Establish our old Directory,
And open all thy Peoples Eyes,
To read th'Assembly's Catechise.
We only know what thou art not,
And from a Negative, infer
Thou'rt Good, because thou can'st not err:
Look down upon us, sinful Creatures,
So chang'd by our corrupted Natures,
That loe thou know'st we are not Men;
And if not so, what are we then?
I'll tell thee, if thou want'st to know,
We're Monsters bent to Satan's Bow,
Meer Brutes; ay, ay, and are we so?
Yes, very slothful, wicked Elves,
That love not Heaven, or our Selves,
19
Thou know'st I never tell a Lie;
Therefore we pray thee, at thy Leisure,
Bestow thy Grace, that Heav'nly Treasure,
Upon our Souls, that we may be
Such Good, Good, Good,—ah, let me see,
Defenders of those Holy Truths,
That came from out thy Prophets Mouths.
O strengthen us, thy lowly Creatures,
To trample down Lawn Sleeves and Mitres,
And High Church Nobles bind in Fetters;
Or if they prove for us too strong,
O let 'em live so long, so long,
'Till thy Elect shall flout and scoff 'em,
And all the World grow weary of 'em.
Humble the High Church, bring her low,
That she her wicked Pride may know;
And let the Book of Mass be brought,
With all its Popish Dregs, to nought;
And in its room, to thy great Glory,
Establish our old Directory,
20
To read th'Assembly's Catechise.
Let no Tyrannick, Crown or Steeple
Triumph or Tow'r above thy People;
But give them, with their Popish Lands,
Into thy Holy Servants Hands,
That we, thy Saints, may save this Nation,
And by a true Illumination,
Compleat a Blessed Reformation.
Triumph or Tow'r above thy People;
But give them, with their Popish Lands,
Into thy Holy Servants Hands,
That we, thy Saints, may save this Nation,
And by a true Illumination,
Compleat a Blessed Reformation.
Let no high-flying Jacobites,
Those Birds of Prey, those Hawks and Kites,
Bear any Office, or Command,
In this our Isle, thy Promis'd Land:
But let thy Holy Saints pull down
Those Props o'th' Babylonian Crown:
May they be scatter'd as the Dust,
For if they do not fall, we must.
Those Birds of Prey, those Hawks and Kites,
Bear any Office, or Command,
In this our Isle, thy Promis'd Land:
But let thy Holy Saints pull down
Those Props o'th' Babylonian Crown:
May they be scatter'd as the Dust,
For if they do not fall, we must.
O stifle all those wicked Papers,
In which the High Church make their Vapours:
Let the Memorial and Rehearsal,
Which we poor Lambs are bound to curse all,
Be doom'd t'illuminate our Pipes,
Or give our Backsides cleanly Wipes.
In which the High Church make their Vapours:
Let the Memorial and Rehearsal,
Which we poor Lambs are bound to curse all,
21
Or give our Backsides cleanly Wipes.
Confound Politicus Mercurious,
Whose Reas'nings might have prov'd injurious,
Had not the Threat'nings of the Laws
Made him turn Tail upon his Cause,
And many Weeks before he dy'd,
For Safety, court the strongest Side.
No Shame! for honest Men may doubt,
And sturdy Champions tack about:
Besides, by Right of Human Reason,
We may desert at such a Season;
When, by the cow'rdly Eye of Fear,
We do foresee some Danger near,
If we should farther persevere.
Whose Reas'nings might have prov'd injurious,
Had not the Threat'nings of the Laws
Made him turn Tail upon his Cause,
And many Weeks before he dy'd,
For Safety, court the strongest Side.
No Shame! for honest Men may doubt,
And sturdy Champions tack about:
Besides, by Right of Human Reason,
We may desert at such a Season;
When, by the cow'rdly Eye of Fear,
We do foresee some Danger near,
If we should farther persevere.
We more particular pray,
That thou would'st find some speedy way
To save us, hide us, and relieve us,
From Hudibrasus Redivivus,
That Antichristian, Popish Book,
That makes thy Saints like Devils look,
And wounds and persecutes the Righteous,
Much worse than Laughing Heraclitus.
That thou would'st find some speedy way
To save us, hide us, and relieve us,
From Hudibrasus Redivivus,
That Antichristian, Popish Book,
That makes thy Saints like Devils look,
22
Much worse than Laughing Heraclitus.
Let not that Cause, good L---d, thy own
As well as ours, be trampl'd down
By High Church Pamphlets, Songs, and Libels,
Or made the Sport of Puns and Quibles;
But hold for us thy Peoples Sake,
The Hands of L--- and of D---:
Banish them to some Land remote,
Where Wit don't signify a Groat;
Some new-found, rude, unpolish'd Nation,
Where Learning never was in Fashion,
But where they neither read or think,
Or deal in cursed Pen and Ink,
Those wicked Tools, by Hell design'd
T'annoy the Peace of Human-kind:
There let them cavel, and contend,
To shame the Cause they would defend;
And tho' their Principles agree,
Yet squable to their Infamy.
As well as ours, be trampl'd down
By High Church Pamphlets, Songs, and Libels,
Or made the Sport of Puns and Quibles;
But hold for us thy Peoples Sake,
The Hands of L--- and of D---:
Banish them to some Land remote,
Where Wit don't signify a Groat;
Some new-found, rude, unpolish'd Nation,
Where Learning never was in Fashion,
But where they neither read or think,
Or deal in cursed Pen and Ink,
Those wicked Tools, by Hell design'd
T'annoy the Peace of Human-kind:
There let them cavel, and contend,
To shame the Cause they would defend;
And tho' their Principles agree,
Yet squable to their Infamy.
23
Next, lay thy scourging Hand, good L---d,
Upon that High Church Scribe, N---d W---d:
May all his spiteful, Bitter Nuts,
Be drown'd in th'empting of our Guts;
The stinking Fate of Doctor's Bills,
Confound his Kernels, and his Shells;
May all his pointed Prose and Rime
Throne at us, Saints, from time to time,
Be punish'd one Day, as a Crime;
Not Dooms-day, L---d, I do not mean;
There's other Days 'twixt this and then,
Wherein, I hope, the good old Cause,
In spight of High Church Rooks and Daws,
May have the whetting of the Laws.
Upon that High Church Scribe, N---d W---d:
May all his spiteful, Bitter Nuts,
Be drown'd in th'empting of our Guts;
The stinking Fate of Doctor's Bills,
Confound his Kernels, and his Shells;
May all his pointed Prose and Rime
Throne at us, Saints, from time to time,
Be punish'd one Day, as a Crime;
Not Dooms-day, L---d, I do not mean;
There's other Days 'twixt this and then,
Wherein, I hope, the good old Cause,
In spight of High Church Rooks and Daws,
May have the whetting of the Laws.
But kindly show'r thy Mercies down
On Saint De F---e, and Captain J---n:
O Snuff that intellectual Light,
By which they think, and which they write;
For if it long should burn thus dim,
As now it does in Sessions-time,
The good old Cause must be confounded,
Up Cavalier, and down goes Round-head.
On Saint De F---e, and Captain J---n:
O Snuff that intellectual Light,
By which they think, and which they write;
For if it long should burn thus dim,
As now it does in Sessions-time,
24
Up Cavalier, and down goes Round-head.
O sanctify the Calves-Head Club,
Those valiant Patriots of the Mob;
O make them stedfast, wise, and wary;
Strengthen their Zeal, they ne'er may vary
Their good old Feast in January.
O Bless the Calves, whose Heads they chuse
For this their Pious Heav'nly Use:
May they abound with Brains, to fit 'em
For Sauce, above the Saints that eat 'em:
Protect them at their solemn Dinner,
Least some malicious High Church Sinner,
Should hatch (assisted by the Devil)
Some Powder-Plot beneath the Table,
Which at one Blast should spoil their Feasting,
And blow them down to Everlasting.
Those valiant Patriots of the Mob;
O make them stedfast, wise, and wary;
Strengthen their Zeal, they ne'er may vary
Their good old Feast in January.
O Bless the Calves, whose Heads they chuse
For this their Pious Heav'nly Use:
May they abound with Brains, to fit 'em
For Sauce, above the Saints that eat 'em:
Protect them at their solemn Dinner,
Least some malicious High Church Sinner,
Should hatch (assisted by the Devil)
Some Powder-Plot beneath the Table,
Which at one Blast should spoil their Feasting,
And blow them down to Everlasting.
Bless all our kind industrirous Friends,
Whose Zeal and Courage gain'd our Ends,
And did so cordially assist
To get that Popish Bill dismis'd;
That Bill, which, had it took Effect,
Had cramp'd our Cause, and thy Elect;
Brought us to th'Cross, the Cowl, the Cope,
T'obey the Pope, good L---d, the Pope.
O bless those zealous Saints, I say,
That sav'd us but the other Day
From High Church Arbitrary Sway:
Give them the Grace of Bradshaw, Noll,
Pride, Danvers, Ireton, Cook, and all;
Those Saints, who did not by their Knavery,
As Papists say, but by their Bravery,
Save us from Popery and Slavery;
That these good Men, for whom we pray,
The very self-same Game may play,
And break, by Dint of Sword and Fist,
The sturdy Neck of Antichrist:
Confound her, hunt her, worry'r, rend her
With all vain Pomps that do attend her,
Crowns, Crosiers, Caps, Hooks, Crooks, and Mitres;
L---d, let them all be broke to Shatters,
That we, thy Saints, may prove ascendant,
And all the Land be Independant.
Then shall we, free from Fear or Shame,
Sing Hymns and Praises to thy Name,
And gather, with a thankful Hand,
The Fruits of all thy Promis'd Land.
Whose Zeal and Courage gain'd our Ends,
And did so cordially assist
To get that Popish Bill dismis'd;
25
Had cramp'd our Cause, and thy Elect;
Brought us to th'Cross, the Cowl, the Cope,
T'obey the Pope, good L---d, the Pope.
O bless those zealous Saints, I say,
That sav'd us but the other Day
From High Church Arbitrary Sway:
Give them the Grace of Bradshaw, Noll,
Pride, Danvers, Ireton, Cook, and all;
Those Saints, who did not by their Knavery,
As Papists say, but by their Bravery,
Save us from Popery and Slavery;
That these good Men, for whom we pray,
The very self-same Game may play,
And break, by Dint of Sword and Fist,
The sturdy Neck of Antichrist:
Confound her, hunt her, worry'r, rend her
With all vain Pomps that do attend her,
Crowns, Crosiers, Caps, Hooks, Crooks, and Mitres;
L---d, let them all be broke to Shatters,
26
And all the Land be Independant.
Then shall we, free from Fear or Shame,
Sing Hymns and Praises to thy Name,
And gather, with a thankful Hand,
The Fruits of all thy Promis'd Land.
But, L---d, I pray thee, by the by,
Look down, and cast a jealous Eye
Upon our cunning Elder Brethren,
Call'd by the Name of Presbyterian;
Let not that persecuting Faction,
Too pow'rful grow, for our Correction;
But make them, in these happy Days,
Thy crafty Instruments, to raise
Us Saints to thy eternal Praise;
As heretofore thou thought'st 'em fitting
For that Great Work, when Rump was sitting;
For if thou suffer'st them to climb
Above thy People, at this time,
Still must thy poor distressed Saints
Persue thee with their sad Complaints,
And Cry aloud, in great Confusion,
O Persecution, Persecution.
L---d, humble 'em to our Hearts desire,
And let them not too high aspire,
Because they are too much like Fire:
They serve us well in our Disasters,
But are too hot to prove good Masters.
Look down, and cast a jealous Eye
Upon our cunning Elder Brethren,
Call'd by the Name of Presbyterian;
Let not that persecuting Faction,
Too pow'rful grow, for our Correction;
But make them, in these happy Days,
Thy crafty Instruments, to raise
Us Saints to thy eternal Praise;
As heretofore thou thought'st 'em fitting
For that Great Work, when Rump was sitting;
For if thou suffer'st them to climb
Above thy People, at this time,
Still must thy poor distressed Saints
Persue thee with their sad Complaints,
27
O Persecution, Persecution.
L---d, humble 'em to our Hearts desire,
And let them not too high aspire,
Because they are too much like Fire:
They serve us well in our Disasters,
But are too hot to prove good Masters.
O sanctify this Congregation;
Scatter their Seed throughout the Nation,
And cleanse their wicked Souls within,
From all the filthy Dregs of Sin;
Wash them from all their Blots and Stains,
As Houswives do their Pots and Pans:
O stretch their Consciences, I pray;
O stretch 'em largely every way,
That by that means they may embrace
A greator Portion of thy Gracee;
Which well improv'd by Pray'r and Fasting,
May make them Saints for Everlasting.
Scatter their Seed throughout the Nation,
And cleanse their wicked Souls within,
From all the filthy Dregs of Sin;
Wash them from all their Blots and Stains,
As Houswives do their Pots and Pans:
O stretch their Consciences, I pray;
O stretch 'em largely every way,
That by that means they may embrace
A greator Portion of thy Gracee;
Which well improv'd by Pray'r and Fasting,
May make them Saints for Everlasting.
This he repeated o'er again,
And all the People cry'd, Amen.
And all the People cry'd, Amen.
| Hudibras Redivivus | |