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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]

Ward, Edward (1667-1731)

[section]

Hudibras Redivivus: OR, A Burlesque POEM ON THE TIMES.

Part the Seventh.

XI.

10.

11.

12.

II.

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7. Part the Seventh.

CANTO X.

The Vip'rous Congregation, pleas'd
With what they'd heard, were now dismiss'd;
So squeezing forth, brim-full of Grace,
Each turn'd his Rump on Holy Place,
And with his Elbows and his Feet,
Made way into the open Street.
I shov'd my bulky Corps along,
But look'd, amidst the skinny Throng,

Like Stall-fed Bullock, fat and fine,
Amongst King Pharaoh's famish'd Kine.
I puff'd, and blow'd, and thrust, and bussl'd,
'Till thro' the narrow Gulph I'd jossl'd,
Which stunk as if their Teacher's Pray'rs,
That crept into their list'ning Ears,
Too windy were to be confin'd;
So working down, made way behind.

When I, with much ado, had clear'd
My self of the infected Herd,
And turn'd (good Manners quite forgetting)
My low'r End on their Low C---h Meeting,
The poys'nous Fumes I'd suck'd in there,
I gladly chang'd for sweeter Air,
Not knowing, but the Breath that comes
Out from between a Rebel's Gums,
If long imbib'd, might plague and spoil
The Body, and the Mind defile;
Turn our sound Principles to sad ones,
And change good Consciences to bad ones.

Why not, as well as Mists and Fogs,
That rise from filthy Fens and Bogs,
With Aguish Fits, make Mortals tremble,
Like quaking Zealots, that dissemble,
When to their Brethren they aver it,
The Workings of the Holy Spirit;
If thus the Vapours that do swarm
From slimy Fens, can do us harm,
The dang'rous Breath, that flows each Day
From Men more filthy far than they,
Must give to greater Mischiefs Birth,
Than all the Quagmires of the Earth.

When thus deliver'd from the Crowd,
Precisely dress'd, devoutly proud,
I left them at the Alley Gate,
Each waiting for his Friend or Mate,
That they might all creep home in Couples,
The better to debate their Scruples,
And canvas o'er the Cant they'd heard
From Lanthorn Jaws, and picked Beard.

My Friend, that to the Lecture led me,
Now walking leisurely by side me,
Began to ask my Approbation
Of our dull Quirpo's dark Oration.

Old Friend, said I, to tell you Truth,
I have not heard from Block-head's Mouth
Such worthless Cant, such senseless Blunders,
Such frothy Quibbles and Cunnunders,
Such wicked Stuff, such poys'nous Babble,
Such uncouth, wretched Ribble Rabble,
Never since Cromwell's frantick Porter,
Who whilst he did in Bedlam quarter,
Thro' Iron Bars roar'd out aloud,
Mad Doctrine to the madder Crowd.

With what bold Ignorance can a Dunce,
The Worship of the Church renounce,
Where Sacred Order moves the Sense,
And raises awful Reverence
Tow'rds that great Pow'r, to whom we pray,
And those our Guides, that teach the way?

What Hypocrite, that once but hears
The Holy Exc'lence of her Pray'rs,
Can cavel at those Heav'nly Words,
Whose Christian Force so well accords?
With all Conditions and Degrees
Of Human Souls, who pray for Ease,
Oppress'd with sinful Miseries,
What formless, poor, ex temp're Matter,
Compos'd of Non-sense and Ill-nature,
Squeez'd out from the illit'rate Noddle
Of some dull, canting Tom a Doodle,
Can without spiteful Blasphemie,
To th'Church's Form compared be,
Which was at first from Scripture drawn
By Bishops worthy of their Lawn;
Good Men, well learn'd in Sacred Story,
Who labour'd hard to set before ye,
Instead of Int'rest, God's true Glory?

With what strange Ins'lence can a Wretch,
That hears a grave, wise Doctor preach

With awful Mein, and Parts so great,
They Honour both the Church and State,
Whose searching Truths Words a Passage make
To e'ery Heart that hears him speak,
And force ill Thoughts to fly away,
Like Mists before the God of Day?
I say, with what strange Impudence?
What Prejudice and want of Sense,
Can Calvin's whining Saints compare
The hum-drum Non-sense that they hear;
The canting Lies, instead of Truth,
Yawn'd from a stubborn Block-head's Mouth,
With the learn'd Doctrine of a Guide,
By Heav'n and Nature qualify'd,
Whose Words have that commanding Sense,
They make us feel their Eloquence,
And by their Influence, incline
Our sinful Souls to what's Divine?
Whilst those illit'rate, gaping Fools,
Who prate in Barns and Dancing-Schools,

Would make a Christian, by their Teaching,
Abhor their Praying, and their Preaching,
And think they study'd to advance
Rebellion, Pride, and Ignorance;
And that, instead of propagating
True Christian Practice by their Prating,
Their bawling Dunces only meant
To teach their Hearers to dissent
From all that's good and excellent?
Right, says my Friend, the Truths you say,
Are clear as any Sun-shine Day;
For oft i'th' Country have I seen,
When at a Meeting I have been,
An Ape, o'er Back of Leathern Chair,
Squeeze out a Sermon, or a Pray'r,
Screwing his Phiz the time he's prating,
As if h'ad been Exonerating;
For every Utt'rance of the Fool,
Came from him, like a hard-bound Stool,

Wiping his Lips at each Expression,
As if his senseless, dull Oration
Was such a foul Reverse of Truth,
His very Words defil'd his Mouth,
And made the sinful Trumpet need
More Wipes, than Nature's Sink just freed
From the loose Dregs of Meals and Messes,
Our Drunken Vices, and Excesses;
Yet such a bold illit'rate Dunce,
That can but rattle, rave, and bounce,
Altho' he little more can say,
Than Laud and G---d, and Eke and Aye,
Shall follow'd be by larger Flocks,
Than a Learn'd Guide, that's Orthodox.

Said I, we by Experience know,
Obstinate Fools will still be so:
The wisest Occulist can't find
A way to cure the self-will'd Blind,
But still, like Bats that love the Night,
They'll turn their Tails upon the Light.

By ancient Grannums we are told,
In Proverb true, as well as old,
That Birds, who are of the same Feather,
Delight to meet, and flock together:
So that the neigbouring Owls will follow
The Howlet, that they hear, but hollow;
Nay, if a Wolf but makes a Noise,
And elivates his howling Voice,
The rest will from their Dens come out,
And gather round the bawling Brute;
As Zealots, join with one another,
To hear the Howls of Holy Brother.

Hush, says my Friend, mind what you say;
You know this is not Time of Day
For Truth to be so obvious made,
We must not call a Spade, a Spade.

In Troth, said I, I cannot flatter,
My Muse abhors to mince the matter;
A Knave she like a Knave will draw,
In spight of that grim D---n, L---:

She seeks no Int'rest, knows no Fear,
But as they be, makes things appear;
And if the Truth be deem'd a Libel,
Good Heav'n preserve the Holy Bible
From all those Hypocrites, that use it
Only to wrest it, and abuse it;
And make it, by their canting Whines,
Subservient to their base Designs.

Be silent, says my Friend, a while,
I'll tell a Tale, shall make you smile.

A Clergy-man, of great Renown,
Well known in Country, and in Town;
Fam'd for an exquisite Conjunction,
Of Parts becoming Holy Function,
Had writ a learned Tract, to show
The Dangers that from Schism flow;
And willing, as became his Station,
To have his P---'s Approbation,
He humbly shews the painful Piece
To th'B--- of the D---e:

With much Content, the Book he read,
And gave the Applause it merited;
But, Sir, says he, tho' Schism's a Crime,
This is alass! no proper Time
To trouble tender Consciences
With such Polemick Points as these:
Besides, 'tis dang'rous to disturb 'em,
We must not either spur or curb 'em.

My L---, reply'd the Country Priest,
Since there's no bridling of the Beast,
And that your L---p's pleas'd to say,
At present 'tis the better Way
To stop good Works, and wink at Evil,
For once, like you, I'll be so civil,
To hold a Candle to the Devil.

I find, said I, you make this Motion,
Like a true Friend, by way of Caution,
To shew this is no proper Time
To publish Truth, dress'd up in Rime;

Nor is it Treason, if I say,
In Prose or any other Way,
Without the Danger of offending
A potent Tribe, who are intending,
Under Pretence of mending Matters,
To bring us into S---sh F---rs;
Therefore, since you have been so kind,
In merry Tale to hint your Mind,
And give me good Advice, I'll take it,
Not tell the Truth, or yet forsake it;
But hug her closely in my Breast,
And both submit to be supprest,
Till Time, that brings all Things to Light,
Shall rescue her from Error's Night,
And make her shine Divinely bright.

No more will I presume to meddle
With up-start Rump, leap'd into Saddle,
Or in his odious Colours paint
That Hypocrite, a Modern Saint;

Nor shall my Muse in doleful Verse,
The Tragick Villanies rehearse,
Done by that Sanguinary Brood,
That wash'd their Hands in Royal Blood.

No more the merry Jade shall jest
Upon their solemn Calves-Head Feast;
Or eke prophane that mod'rate Zeal,
Which we and they know both too well;
Is only meant when things accrue,
As Holy Tribe would have 'em do,
To make us mod'rate Christian S---s,
To Heath'nish F---s, and fiery K---s:
For he that's cunning in undoing,
And seeks to work another's Ruin,
Will coax him first to be his Friend,
And that blind Side the most commend,
By which he hopes to gain his End.

With that my Friend look'd up, and snorted,
And thus upon me he retorted:

Tho' Rods you know are soaking for you,
I find, says he, it won't deter you:
Did you not say, you would forbear,
And yet you're rambling G*d knows where.

Pox take, said I, this Itch of Scribling,
Like Fish, we Poets must be nibling.

But have a Care, says he, at last,
The bearded Hook don't hold you fast;
And let me, like a Friend, advise,
As you are merry, pray be wise:
For if you will be boldly casting
Your Flirts at those that love no Jesting,
They may return, when you provoke,
In earnest, such a spiteful Stroke,
You'll like as bad, as they your Joke.

Said I, these wise Considerations
Have cool'd my hot-brain'd Cogitations;
Thou'st damp'd at once my Muse's Fury,
She's a meer Coward, I assure ye,
And dreads a d---d Fanatick J---y.

Well! since she whispers out her Fears
On both sides of my list'ning Ears,
And tells me, If I don't comply
To scribble modishly, that I
May thirst for Wine, and starve for Hunger,
Ere she'll stand by me any longer;
I find, to save my self from Harm,
Like modern W---g, I must reform,
That is, not speak the Truths I shou'd do,
Nor scourge the Factions as I wou'd do;
For as their Pow'r of doing Ill
Can ne'er be equal to their Will,
So is my honest Will to shew
The Ills and Mischiefs that they do,
Above the Pow'r of my weak Sense
Now cramp'd by a R---.

Farewell, ye proud aspiring Herd;
May you be neither lov'd or fear'd,
But only rais'd aloft, like Rain
In Season, to come down again;

For sure the h---r P---s must see
You ever was, and e'er will be,
A Snake to those that cherish ye.

CANTO XI.

Bus'ness now calling for my Friend,
T'our Conversation put an End;
So that I now began to think,
B'ing drowthy, on a little Drink;
And glad to chuse the saving'st way
To spend the Remnant of the Day,
I sneak'd into a little House,
Where Porters do their Belch carouse,
Where by the Kitchen Fire, there sate
Two Toapers in a warm Debate;
One was the Sweeper of a Chimney,
That dirty Rhime to Polyhimney,

With Nigro Hands and Face, as black
As was his Sooty Bushel Sack,
That hung across his sturdy Back.
The other was a Mealy Blade,
All powder'd o'er from Heel to Head;
One that prun'd frowsy Beards for Two Pence,
And therefore Master but of few Pence;
Which sad Misfortune caus'd a hot
Dispute between each Brother Sot,
About the Payment of a Pot:
The Chimney-Sweeper sate in State,
And swore he'd make the Barber pay't,
Or else, before he left the Room,
He'd make a Puff of's little Broom,
And dipping it in's Bag of Soot,
Wou'd powd'r him o'er from Head to Foot,
'Till he had put him into deep
Mourning, like any Brother Sweep.

The Barber, who was trim and neat,
Vex'd at his dirty Opposite,

Bit's Nails, as Men enrag'd are wont,
And thus return'd the gross Affront:

You sooty, smutty, nasty Slouch,
Not fit for cleanly Hands to touch:
Thou ill-look'd Picture of the Devil,
That can't be Tipsy, but must cavil;
A Heath'nish Sot, that roars and swears,
Only fit Company for Bears.—

These Words provok'd the Sweeper highly,
Who handling Soot-bag very slighly,
Says he, A Heathen do you cry?
I say, you Wash-ball Rogue, you Lie
I chuse Religion by Discretion;
That which most profits my Profession.
Therefore you Dog, I'll make you know,
If you are High-Church, I am Low.
No Heathen, but a Tipling Saint,
That loves a Church with Chimney in't:
Then mounting of his sooty Sack,
He gave the Barber such a Thwack,

That made him look of party Colour,
Betwixt a Collier and a Fuller.

Couragious Tonsor, highly scorning
To thus be put in second Mourning,
Without revenging with his Fist
Th'Abuse from his Antagonist,
Starts up, and with a Manly Rage
Does his black dusty Foe engage.
Sometimes the Battel doubtful grew,
That we, the Standers by, scarce knew
Which would prove Conqu'ror of the two.
At last Smut grew too hard for Smug,
And gave him such a Cornish Hug,
Back'd with s' unmerciful a Cuff,
That made poor Tonsor cry, Enough.
With that, the Conqu'ror crow'd and strutted,
The while the Victim snub'd and pouted;
With Hands and Face his Cloths beside
From White to Black so truly dy'd,

That any Stranger would have said,
They'd both been Brethren of a Trade.

You know, says Sweep, I told you my Church,
And now I'll make you tell me thy Church,
Or by my Word, and you may take it,
I'll thrash my Soot from out your Jacket.

The Barber now b'ing tame and cool,
And seated on repenting Stool,
Not caring for a second Beating,
Reply'd, He liv'd 'twixt Church and Meeting,
And therefore was oblig'd in Troth
To Trim for Profit 'twixt 'em both.

Pox take thee, says the sooty Brute,
How came we two to thus fall out?
I find Religion is in thee
The very same that 'tis in me.
Int'rest I find, that pow'rful Guide,
Leads thee or me to any side.

They say, crys Tonsor, 'tis the Fashion,
Follow'd by Men in ev'ry Station;

And tho' we're poor, why should not we,
Like other Fellow-Christians be?
And from our Betters learn the way
To live and thrive, as well as pray?
And in that Faith and Party trust,
By which we hope to gain the most?

Nouns, crys the Sweeper, being mellow,
Thou talk'st like a good honest Fellow;
I'm sorry that the strong Beer Barrel
Should make us two such Fools, to quarrel,
Since now, by thy Discourse, I find
We're both intirely of a Mind;
For what thou say'st, is very true,
All Stations do the Pence pursue.
Religion, once the Nation's Darling,
Now bows its Head to pow'rful Sterling.
Money does every thing command;
Without, Efaith, as Matters stand,
We now can't shake a Knave by th'Hand.

In short, Queens Pictures, by their Features,
Charm all Degrees of Human Creatures,
From the black Robe of deeper Dye,
To less black Mortals, thee and I.

By this time the offensive Soot,
That in the Scufflle flew about,
Began to op'rate in my Snout,
And made me so Cheho and Snivel,
As if I'd got the Sneezing Evil:
It set m' a Wheezing worse than Pthisick,
And downwards work'd like any Physick,
That I was forc'd, in Cellar first,
To empty what would else have burst,
And chang'd without, for Air more clean,
The sooty Fog that 'rose within:
Thus leaving with Regret of Mind,
The rest o'th' Comedy behind,
'Twas now about that Hour of Night,
When stroling Hussies, much too light,

Those Paramours of Pimps and Bayli's,
Creep out from Garrets and from Allies,
Pursu'd by poor reforming Rogues,
As Bitches Proud by Curs and Dogs;
Some Jilts in Tally'd Furbulows,
Dress'd up as if in Quest of Beaus,
New powder'd, patch'd, and painted o'er,
The Marks of a retailing Whore,
Came jutting by with Muff and Fan,
Six Harlots to an honest Man,
Mix'd here and there with low-priz'd Vermin,
Rigg'd out for Porters, and for Carmen;
With Arms wrapp'd up in Aprons white,
Which in dark Corners shone as bright,
As Glow-worms Arses in the Night;
Each at some Distance off behind,
Attended by a Rogue, design'd
To guard and vindicate his Jewel
With Mutton Fist and Oaken Towel,

From the Affronts of Brother Rabble,
Or any accidental Squabble.
Thought I, O happy pious Nation!
O bless'd Effects of Reformation!
By which we find, in ev'ry Place,
In spight of Pulpit and of Press,
More Rogues, but not one Whore the less.

I found, for all the pious Care
Of Aldermen and good L---d M---r,
And Holy Projects put on foot,
To tear up Evil by the Root,
By arming broken Knaves with Staves,
To punish Whores that Sin by ha'ves,
And cannot with obliging Crowns,
Bribe old Sir Macril's Mermadons,
That still the City Jilts and Jades
Would claim the Freedom of their Trades,
And exercise their sinful Tails
As long as pow'rful Rump prevails;

For whilst Hypocrisy and Cant
Make up a true blue Protestant,
So long will Reason stoop to Roaring,
And Sanctity concur with Whoring,
After a most Religious manner,
To shew the Saint, and hide the Sinner.

Thought I, the Tongues of Faction may
Ring Peals of Holiness all Day;
Preach Lectures of their Reformation,
Election, and Regeneration,
And fill the Crowd upon a Sunday,
With Hopes of growing Righteous one Day;
Spread ev'ry City Coffee-house Table
With Libels, to reform the Rabble,
Where they may find at large exprest,
What Church and Government are best;
And learn at once, from the Review,
Religion, and Rebellion too.

Yet all their Pains and Politicks,
Their Shams, and Flams, and pretty Tricks,

I fear will prove but quaint Devices,
To purge our Pockets, not our Vices.

So Factious Knaves, to cheat the Crowd,
Cry out, Reform, Reform, aloud,
When all the Goodness they intend,
Is but to marr, and not to mend,
That hungry Saints, whom Int'rest draws,
To shoulder up the Holy Cause,
May thro' their Cavils and Debates,
Lay Godly Hands on good Estates.

FINIS.