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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.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

Part the Ninth.

XIV.

10.

XV.

11.

XVI.

12.

XVII.

II.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

10.

IX.

11.

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9. Part the Ninth.

CANTO XIV.

The Sun advancing as I lay,
My Whimsies vanish'd all away,
Unable to endure the Light,
Like wand'ring Ghosts, that walk by Night;
Who, as our learned Spirit-Raisers,
And Cat-ey'd Apparition-Gazers
Aver, are seldom to be seen,
But when the Batts and Owls begin
To open their ill-boding Throats,
And fright us with their screaming Notes;

Which, as old Nurses say, portend
Sick Mortals to be near their End,
And that the froward Babe, possest
Of Horse-shoe Mould, and narrow Chest,
Will change, the next revolving Moon,
His Cradle for an Angel's Crown,
And leave his weeping Mother sorry
To see this State so transitory.

When thus my Visions all were fled,
And I left waking in my Bed,
By th'Eastern Sun-beams in my Eyes,
I found 'twas now high time to rise,
And like good Housewife, mind my Knitting,
With that Industry which was fitting;
For Knitting, tho' by Gammar Biddle
Confin'd to Stocking and to Needle,
Yet 'tis a Word that, by the by,
May other Bus'ness signify.

Upright I sate a while in Bed,
First scratch'd my Elbows, then my Head,

A Trick we learn when Boys, and then
Retain the Habit 'till we're Men,
As Stories by our Nurses told,
Will still infect us when we're Old:
Besides, in such warm Times as these,
When Malice bites much worse than Fleas,
And Envy strikes at Human Ease,
A Man may find true Cause of Scratching
Without the common Reason, Itching.
But finding little Consolation
In melancholy Rumination,
And recollecting as I sate,
An Adage of an ancient Date,
That 'tis our Prudence to endure
With Patience what we cannot cure.
From thence concluding all those Fears
And Thoughts, that magnify our Cares,
Were but the Marks of Human Folly,
I shifted off my Melancholy,

Rising with full as good a Will
As Lover that had Kiss'd his Fill,
And stole away from sleeping Bride,
Who waking, ne'er was satisfy'd.

When thus erect, in dext'rous Haste
I button'd Britches round my Waste,
And slipp'd on all that modern Pride
By a poor Fig-leaf once supply'd;
Then by the Help of Razor, Ball,
Comb, Powder, and the Dev'l and all,
Improv'd my Face, as well as Figure,
'Till I appear'd all Youth and Vigour,
Looking as brisk as Play-house Whore,
New painted up at Thirty Four,
Who had full Twenty Years in Town
Retail'd her Favours up and down,
'Till she had burnt with Claps and P---xes,
More standing Ware than Sampson's Foxes;
For 'tis become a modern Rule
To act like Knave, and dress like Fool,

That Cloths the better may disguise
The Rogu'ry that within us lies.
The very Saint loves outward Show,
And tiffles up like any Beau.
The most precise invet'rate Whig
Goes loaded now in Whores-hair Wig,
Who us'd, in spight to High-Church Pride,
To wear but nine Hairs of a Side.
The teaching Saint, in Times of Yore,
The Pot-lid Hat demurely wore,
Beneath whose Umbrage was a Face
Screw'd into Gravity and Grace,
That Hum-drum's, Hypocritick Look
Might suit with Puritannick Cloak,
To make Fools think he was no less
Than Good, by's Apostolick Dress:
But now each canting Knipper-doling
Has left off that Extream of Fooling;
And tho' their Stiffness can't comply
With the establish'd Liturgy,

Yet have they so conform'd their Cloths,
As to become most zealous Beaus,
Hoping by their external Pride,
To gain the Ladies of their Side,
Knowing they love to hear the Word
By a spruce Guide administer'd,
Who, whilst he spins his tedious Pray'rs,
Can please their Eyes, as well as Ears,
And lend them Masculine Assistance,
When feeble Spouse is at a Distance;
To sanctify the good fat Fowls,
And bless the Wine that chears their Souls,
That by the Force of Cap'n and Claret,
The Flesh may conquer Holy Spirit.

When Poet-like I'd spent some Time
In tagging these my Thoughts with Rime,
And had an Hour or two bestow'd
In dressing like a Man of Mode,
'Till all things I'd in Quirpo put
Artfully on from Head to Foot;

Thought I, 'tis strange that Men of Brains
Should thus in Dressing take such Pains,
And waste one quarter of the Day
T'appear so foppish, and so gay;
Yet 'tis the Custom of this Nation,
For Wits to copy Fools in Fashion
So near, that as the Times now go,
I must confess 'tis hard to know
A modern Poet from a Beau;
For both admiring Female Beauty,
For Charms that lie above the Shoe-tye,
Turn Fops, to please the fickle Gender,
In hopes to tempt 'em to surrender.

I then stept out, like Crop-sick Sinner,
To air my Lungs against my Dinner,
And gain an Appetite most fitting
For one that takes Delight in Eating,
That when I'd strengthen'd Flesh and Blood
With Wine, and some refreshing Food,

I might with Humour brisk and gay,
Dispatch the Bus'ness of the Day;
Which, when attended with Success,
Affords the greatest Happiness
That Man's aspiring active Mind,
Beneath the Starry Orbs, can find:
But if ill-natur'd Fortune crosses
Our pleasing Hopes of Gain, with Losses,
Then does it prove so great a Curse,
That nothing can on Earth be worse.
Thus Bus'ness is to Human Life,
The true Resemblance of a Wife:
If she proves well, she is a Blessing;
If not, a Curse beyond expressing.

But as I gently sail'd along
The Street, among the busy Throng,
I met an old establish'd Whig,
That look'd as sowr, and swell'd as big,
As if some Jacobitish Rumour
Had put the Hot-spur out of Humour.

Old Friend, said I, I'm glad to see thee
So hearty, and so well; but prethee
What makes thee now appear so surly,
That us'd to cant it so demurely?
Says he, 'twould make a Saint run mad,
To see things go so very bad,
At such a Juncture too, Ads-Fish,
When we have all that Heart can wish.

I find, said I, your're Idem Semper,
Still troubl'd with the old Distemper;
Must grumble on, altho' your Sect
Have more than you could well expect.
But who can wonder, that your Pride
And Av'rice ne'er are satisfy'd;
Since nothing e'er could stop your Raving,
The more you have, the more you're craving?

But Man, says he, I'll tell thee what,
We've found such Difference of late
Betwixt a modern Whig, whose Craft
Has slily rais'd him up aloft,

And what he seem'd to be before
He climb'd to Honour and to Pow'r,
That no Man would have thought the Creature
Could so have chang'd his former Nature;
And that Court Air and Conversation
Could make so strange an Alteration.

But why, said I, should that seem strange,
That Whigs in warmer Climes should change?
Since Worms and Maggots, as 'tis said,
Turn Flies, if in the Sun-shine laid,
Then sporting with their Wings, they tow'r,
And such the Sweets of ev'ry Flower;
Disdain the lowly Dirt that fed 'em,
And scorn the very Filth that bred 'em?
Thus turning, as their Wings grow great,
High-Flyers now, that crawl'd of late.
So worthless Mortals, mean by Birth,
Creep humbly o'er the dusty Earth;
'Till rais'd by Fortune, and by Fame,
Then soon forget from whence they came,

And Lord it o'er their Fellow-Creature,
As if their Pride had stretch'd their Stature
Above the Pitch of Human Nature.

But since thou seem'st to have a Sense
Of some uncommon Difference
Between a Whig in Office put,
And the same Zealot when he's out;
Disclose your Thoughts, and let me hear
What diff'rent Characters they bear?
And how they alter their Behaviour,
When once crept into Fortune's Favour?

Says he, since you desire to know 'em,
I'll in their proper Colours show 'em;
And you will find, when once you've seen 'em,
As much Disparity between 'em,
As e'er was found in Servant Maid,
Before she was to Sin betray'd,
And after she has stood the Thrust,
To satisfy her Master's Lust,

And from her Scrubbing and her Sweeping,
Is for her Charms, advanc'd to Keeping.

Marry, said I, at this same Rate,
The Diff'rence must be very great;
F'r a Servant made her Master's Whore,
Tho' humbl' and diligent before,
Grows twice as proud as Lucifer.
But prethee, Friend, without Delay,
Let's hear what 'tis you have to say.

A Whig, says he, o'th' City sort,
That's unacquainted with the Court,
I justly must define to be
A Man of pure Integritie;
One, who by seeking out the Lord,
And constant hearing of the Word,
Does so abound in saving Grace,
That you may read it in his Face;
By which you'll know him at a View,
As eas'ly as you can a Jew:

Besides, he never swears an Oath
Beyond his Conscience or his Troth,
Nor Lies, except to let us see,
That no Man is from Error free.
He hates the Vanity of Kings,
And Pomp of all such useless Things,
Scorning those Idolizing Asses.
That bow to either Crowns or Crosses,
Except it be to those we find
Stamp'd on our Silver when its Coin'd.
All Right to Rule, he does premise
Did from Agreement first arise,
And that our K---s, for all their Vapours,
Are but the People's Under-strappers.
Government he declares to be
Built up by Human Policie;
And that the Saints may change its Nature
As oft as they can form a better.
He owns no more, for all our Struggle,
Of Jus Divinum in the Juggle,

Than in a Pack of Cards, where Kings
And Knaves beat all their Underlings.
He Tooth and Nail aloud denies
All Titles fetch'd beyond the Skies
Or Pow'r, but what the People grant
By solemn League and Covenant;
And dare affirm, by Dint of Reason,
In spight of Law, that calls it Treason,
That if the Monarch strains a Point,
And knocks the Balance out of Joint,
Whate'er he thus should do, to force
The Springs beyond their legal Course,
Can merit no Denomination,
But Tyranny and Usurpation:
And this old Argument he brings
Against th'incroaching Pow'r of Kings.

If Subjects do the Compact break,
Their Lives and Fortunes are at Stake:
Then how must those that rule the Roast,
Be punish'd when th'abuse their Trust?

Next these, a stanch old Whig is he,
Wh' untainted with Authority,
Is one, that for the publick Good,
Will venture Fortune, or his Blood,
Or is at least so very crafty,
To say he'll do't for common Safety:
In all things, he declares to be
For Liberty and Propertie;
And e'er he would be mulct one Penny
By King or Bishop, or by any
But Parliament, he'd draw his Dagger,
And like a true old Roman Swagger,
Or whet his Pen-knife, or his Razer,
And turn a Brutus unto Cæsar.

In's Principles he's stiff and stout,
And is so sturdily devout,
He scorns to b' either led or drove
To what his Conscience can't approve.
Thus, sooner than he'd change his Path,
He'd die a Martyr for his Faith;

And rather would embrace a Rope
Or Faggot, than obey the Pope.

He's one that firmly does maintain
Himself a true Republican;
And that he means the Nation's Good
In all things that a Subject shou'd.
Thus he pretends, where e'er he goes.
These are the outward Signs he shows,
But what is in him, Heaven knows.

I find, said I, you only scan,
As yet, the Outside of the Man,
As Boys at School, where I have seen 'em
Do Verse, before they know what's in 'em:
But since you've drawn the Saint, before he
Has rais'd himself to Pomp and Glorie,
Pray now proceed, and let me see
The Zealot in Authoritie;
His Justice, Mercy, and good Nature,
When climb'd above his Fellow-Creature.

Says he, I grieve at the Occasion,
But yet will speak without Evasion.
A modern Whig, when once he feels
The pleasing Warmth of S--- smiles,
He shifts his Principles, and then
Loves Int'rest just like other Men.
So when the Sun does hottest shine,
The subtle Serpent sheds her Skin:
And changing thus the Coat she wore,
Becomes more speckled than before.

The honest Man, of whom we speak,
Once so Religious, and so Meek,
Who rav'd at others Faults aloud,
To please, and to amuse the Crowd;
No sooner is he rais'd on high,
His mod'rate Management to try,
But all his old pretended Zeal
For th'Welfare of the Common-weal,
Most basely dwindles in a trice
To Pride, Revenge, and Avarice,

That his old Love he soon withdraws
From us, the Champions of the Cause.
So Chanticlear, that takes a Loose
From Muck-hill to the Top o'th' House;
Flutt'ring his Wings, does proudly Crow
O'er all the cackling Train below.

Altho' before he loudly cry'd
Against all those that misapply'd
The publick Stock to their own Uses,
T'enrich themselves by such Abuses;
Blaming his envy'd Predecessors
For vile and treacherous Transgressors,
In sinking, by their crafty Stealth,
The bubbl'd Nation's publick Wealth:
Yet when himself, thro' R--- Grace,
Is chosen into Pow'r and Place,
The self-same Failings soon appear
Blots in his own new Character;
For what before he render'd odious,
He now finds useful and commodious;

So reconciles each gainful Cheat
To be a lawful Perquesite;
And to heap up an ill-got Store,
Out-does the K--- that went before.
Thus one R--- will another blame
For Ills, and spread abroad his Shame;
But when himself obtains a Place
Of Trust, quite fearless of Disgrace,
He proves more greedy, and more base.

The publick Good, which was his Tone,
Is now less minded than his own.
Conscience, that wary faithful Guide,
Religion, Justice, Grace beside,
Which us'd to be his whole Discourse,
Are now made servile to his Purse.
His Av'rice does his Morals blind,
And solves all Scruples of the Mind.
No Favour to his Friends he shows,
Nor Human Mercy to his Foes:
Honesty ebbs, as Int'rest flows.

His Moderation's quite forgot,
Altho' he's for no Party hot;
For like a Rook at Gaming-Table,
Whilst others wrangle, bet, and squabble,
The Cards he does with Cunning deal,
And cheats all Sides with equal Zeal.

Tyrannick arbitrary Sway,
At which he bellow'd ev'ry Day,
And made so much a Rout about it,
When all Men knew we were without it,
He would be now for exercising,
As if he thought that Tyrannizing
Would prove essential to his Rising.
So does the Pious Dame, in Passion,
Her Venom spit at Fornication;
But warm'd with Lust, she's soon prevail'd on
To act the very Sin she rail'd on.

The Cause for which he us'd to squabble,
He now but values as a Bauble,

And is so far from being Low-Church,
That Int'rest has confirm'd him No-Church,
Which is alone the wav'ring Guide,
That leads him o'er to any Side,
And makes him still appear most hearty
For those that prove the gainfull'st Party.
So cunning Pleaders strain the Laws,
And wrangle for the richest Cause;
Which shews, that Gold is the Ascendant
That wins for Plaintiff, or Defendant.

The very Friends that rais'd him high,
In hopes of Benefit thereby,
That so applauded all his Gifts,
And us'd so many subtle Shifts
To make our Tribe believe no other,
But that he was a faithful Brother:
Nay, we that magnify'd his Merit,
And prais'd his Anticrown-head Spirit,
Extoll'd his Qualities and Graces,
And all his old Republick Paces;

Yet notwithstanding all our Arts
To rend'r him as a Whig of Parts,
Deserving truly of our Hearts,
Now Great, he looks no more upon us,
Than if the Trimmer ne'er had known us,
Tho' we, like Pack-threads to a Kite,
Were Means to mount him to his Height.
So th'Vintner, when he first begins,
Submits to all our Drunken Sins,
And to gain Custom and Applause,
Bows low with ev'ry Pint he draws:
But when grown Rich, he looks awry
On Fools that rais'd him up so high,
The sharper too, who'as long depended
On him, by whom he'as been befriended,
When once kind Fortune Rich has made him,
Disdains the very Hand that fed him.

The humble Look, and formal Grace,
That sanctify'd his meagre Face,

From Eye to Chin are chang'd, and now
An awful Pride adorns his Brow.
His Frowns demand low Reverence,
And nods like Comma's point his Sense.
Each solemn Promise that he makes,
If not with Int'rest back'd, he breaks;
Ensnaring even those that love him,
Oppressing such that can't approve him,
And undermining all above him.
He looks with a revengeful Eye
On all that at his Mercy lye,
And blusters in Authoritie
Like Boreas in a Storm at Sea,
'Till hated worse by Men of Sense,
Than Flatt'ry or Impertinence.
He's scornful, jealous, and severe,
Base, false, and proud as Lucifer,
And thinks his Rise but justly due
To Merits, which he ne'er could shew.

Tho' Rich and Great, he's ne'er at Ease,
But restless as the rowling Seas,
Which are to Rage so much inclin'd,
They swell with ev'ry Blast of Wind.
His Trust he does but ill discharge;
His Pow'r is exercis'd at large.
The Bags which do his Coffers load,
Are gain'd by Sinistry and Fraud.
Gold is the Magnet whose Attraction
Commands his Heart in ev'ry Action:
To that his Avaricious Soul
Points like the Needle to the Pole:
By that alone he steers his Course,
And yields to its prevailing Force.
In short, his Malice and Ambition,
His Avaricious Disposition;
His Pride, his Cruelty, his Hate,
His hasty Temper to be Great;

His Heat, his Fury, and his Passion,
Makes him appear to all the Nation,
The meer Reverse of Moderation.

Said I, if one dissenting Brother
Can speak no better of another,
But little K---s upbraid the big,
And Whig thus raves and rails at Whig,
Well may the Church expect no less
Than Usage infamously base
From such a spiteful stubborn Race.

FINIS.