Hudibras Redivivus :: :: University of Virginia Library

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.

10.

Part the Tenth.

XV.

11.

12.

II.

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10. Part the Tenth.

CANTO XV.

Having thus heard from Holy Brother,
One Whig's Opinion of another;
Says he, Your Servant; Friends must part.
I'm yours, said I, with all my Heart.
Thus humbly shew'd my self as civil
As Doctor Edwards to the Devil;
So kindly bidding each farewel,
Like fighting Mares, we both turn'd Tail;
And had not Decency forbid,
Like them too we had kick'd and neigh'd;

For all the friendly Love between us,
Was from Teeth outwards, not within us.
So fawning Courtiers often meet,
And bow to one another's Feet,
Who seek, by Means profoundly base,
To bring each other to Disgrace.

When thus I'd gladly turn'd my Back
Upon a Knave of Calvin's Pack,
And rescu'd my impatient Senses
From all his dull Impertinences,
It being a Whitsun Holy-day,
When 'Prentice Boys have Leave to play,
I rambled on from Street to Street,
To see what Pastimes I could meet;
And as I wander'd up and down
With twenty Crotchets in my Crown,
Begot by sundry pretty Sights,
And various giddy-brain'd Delights,
By Lovers Ages since appointed
To bring young Men and Maids acquainted,

That all their merry harmless Sporting
Might end in Kissing and in Courting,
That Adam's Folly might go round,
And Marriage still maintain its Ground;
That State which caus'd our Parents Fall,
And introduc'd the Dev'l and all.

Some Lasses were at Stool-ball sweating,
And to and fro their Balls were patting,
That longing Youth might stand and see
Their airy brisk Activity;
And for their nimble Steps and Straddles,
Their panting Breasts, and slender Middles,
Commend 'em, flatt'r 'em, and admire 'em,
And in some other Place desire 'em,
Where they, exempt from Fear or Shame,
Might play a much more foollish Game.
So wanton Jilts, to win Mens Hearts,
Oft dance to shew their active Parts,
That by their airy nimble Footting,
Their lofty Cap'ring, and their Cutting,

They might by Lookers on, be guess'd
Most charming Devils when undress'd.

Others in Pairs stept into Coaches,
To ride Post-haste to their Debauches;
Whipp'd up the Sashes made of Tin,
To hide their Impudence within;
Tho' what they did when so inclos'd,
I grant can only be suppos'd;
But when thus hid from Human Eyes,
A jealous Sinner would surmise,
That Lovers something more were doing,
Than just the common Bus'ness Wooing;
For she that will admit her Spark
To bear her Comp'ny in the Dark,
Most certainly excludes the Light,
To do the Bus'ness of the Night.

Among the rest, were booted Cits,
Mounted on Galloppers and Tits,
Whose Spurs are new, and eke their Bridles,
As often as they mount their Saddles.

Some had their Wives, and some their Jades,
Trick'd up behind on ambling Pads,
Wrapp'd up in Dust-Gowns, richer far
Than Quality presume to wear,
Beribbonn'd down from Head to A---se,
Like any Lord May'r's stately Horse.
Their stiff Commodes in Triumph star'd
Above their Fore-heads half a Yard.
With Top-knots, which did bobbing answer
The Motions of each Lady's Prancer;
That by their Heads, a Man might know
Whether the Nag that mov'd below,
Walk'd, Trotted, Gallopp'd, Pac'd, or Ambl'd,
And also when he tripp'd or Stumbl'd:
For as a Friggat's Pendant shows
When the Wind veers, and how it blows;
So by the Flip-flap, and the Nod
Of Madam's Top-knot and Commode,
We knew what Pace the Jennet trod;

And could, without a Wizards Sense,
Judiciously infer from thence,
If Madam sate with Ease, or whether
She rode in Danger of her Leather?

Thus dress'd like Goddesses of May,
The Ladies, as a Man may say,
Rid Post, because in great Decorum;
Their Husbands rid with Horns before 'em
So large, they could not chuse but shew 'em,
Altho' they did not care to blow 'em:
The Reason's plain, because they fear'd
They should alarm the City Herd;
Knowing where Cuckoldom goes round,
A Horn must give an odious Sound,
Ingrateful to the Ears of those,
Upon whose fruitful budding Brows
The shameful Crest in Triumph grows.
So a Welsh Thrummer's slaving Ass,
That carr's his Harp from Place to Place,

Teaz'd with the Instrument he bears,
Its Sound grows odious to his Ears.

Thus did the sundry Female Troops,
Conducted by their Ninconpoops,
In scatt'ring Numbers, jostling meet,
And raise the Dust in ev'ry Street;
Some going East, and others West;
Some to be Kiss'd, and others Press'd;
Some to behold fine Chelsea Colledge,
Others to Epsom and to Dulledge,
To rince their Insides first with Water,
And when that's done, to foul 'em a'ter.
So beauteous Dames of high Renown,
In Summer, leave the vicious Town,
For Tunbridge or the Bath, to clean
Their Charms without side and within,
But oft perverting their Intent,
Return when three Months Time they've spent,
Much more poluted than they went.

Thus London-Cuckolds and their 'Spouses,
Young Merchants, and their Jilts and Huzzies,
Rich Vintners mounted on their Pads,
Fat Vict'lars on their founder'd Jades,
Match'd with such red-fac'd Blowzabella's,
That by their tawny Hides and Tallows,
A Man might know them to be Fellows
Mounted on hirling Tits, who cost
But Eighteen Pence a Side at most:
Leaden-Hall Butchers, with their Brides,
Whose Buttocks had devour'd their Sides,
Mounted on Scrubs that us'd to scowr,
Upon a Trot, eight Miles an Hour.
These mix'd with Brewers, and their Mopsies,
Half dead with Timpanies and Dropsies,
For want of taking timely Warning
Against huge Draughts of Ale i'th' Morning,
Mounted on Pads that take small Pains,
Puff'd up like Hogs with Goods and Grains,

And, like their Riders, wanted Breath,
To rescue 'em from approaching Death.
Some fat-ars'd Sows and lusty Loobies
Were got on Gallaways and Hobbies,
Scarce half so big as Jills and Jacks,
The poor Tits carry'd on their Backs.
All these confus'dly mix'd together,
Were jogging on the L---d knows whether,
To spend that Time they had to spare
I'th' Country Dust, instead of Air,
Which flew much thicker, tho' not higher,
Than Clouds of Smoak from Brewer's Fire;
For such a Crowd of Trotters, Pacers,
Pads, Hunters, Hobbies, Tits, and Racers,
Must grind the drowthy Roads to Powder,
And raise a most confounded Smother.

This Cavalcade b'ing gone and past,
All scamp'ring out of Town in haste,
The sinful Troops soon disappear'd,
And left the Streets of London clear'd,

Where Shops and Stalls were all shut in,
And Passengers appear'd so thin,
As if some Pestilential Curse,
Not the Horn-Plague, but something worse,
Had drove the frighted Cucks from thence,
To shun the fatal Consequence;
At last advancing to the Change,
That seem'd, thro' Silence, very strange,
Whose Walls, like Babel's Tower, us'd
To eccho with strange Tongues confus'd,
That humm'd and buzz'd, and made a Pother,
To cheat and cozen one another.
From this gay Pile I had not gone
So far as I could toss a Stone,
But in my Walk I chanc'd to meet
Such aukward Creatures in the Street,
Saunt'ring along by two and two,
So foolishly, as if they knew
Not what they were about to do.

They gap'd and star'd, and crep'd along,
And now and then an Arse they hung,
As if the foremost Fools were jealous,
That they should loose their hindmost Fellows.
Their Limbs all mov'd, from Head to Gammon,
As if hung on by Madam Sammon;
And sure I am, more antick Faces
Were never carv'd on Viol Bases:
Some had Hare Lips, and some wry Necks;
Some bandy Legs, some crooked Backs;
Some squinted, some for Teeth, had Snags
At least as long as Cobler's Pegs;
Which made them look as if their Mother
Had long'd for some Boar's Head or other.
Some had their formal Noddles put
In Wigs of the Geneva Cut,
Such as hung out some Years ago
On Barbers Blockheads for a Show,
And had no Curl as I could find,
Besides the Duck's-tail Turn behind,

As if the Zealots meant to hide,
By humble Dress, their inward Pride.
So Misers, who command full Bags,
Take Pleasure to appear in Rags,
The better to preserve their Store,
And cheat the World, to think 'em poor.

Others did most precisely wear
Their own lank puritannick Hair,
Barb'd to one standard Length, and hung
To th'Collar down, or scarce so long;
For by some formal Tonsor's Care,
'Twas snipp'd so round and regular,
That one would guess he clapp'd a Bowl
On each Enthusiastick Poll,
So did his Bus'ness with a Jirk
By th'Wooden Cap, to make true Work;
That by the Locks on formal Pate,
Like Hemp new comb'd, so very strait,
They might prevent the World's Suspicion
Of their damn'd crooked Disposition.

Their flapping Hats were of a Size
That hung like Bongrace o'er their Eyes,
And Panthous like, so skreen'd the Noddies,
No Rain could touch their ill-shap'd Bodies.
Their Coats were of so old a Fashion,
As if deriv'd from the Creation,
And copy'd by the Thief that made 'em,
From the first Taylor, Father Adam.
The Sleeve, the Skirt, the Pocket-hole,
The Button, nay, the Button-moul',
Seem'd by their Make, the very Sort
Once worn at Father Abraham's Court.
Court may I say without Offence,
Because the Scripture does evince,
That ev'ry Patriarch was a Prince.
Thus habited, the Godly Throng
In solemn manner march'd along.
So have I seen a cunning Knave,
Dress'd up most exquisitely grave,

The better to deceive Mankind,
And work those Ills he had design'd.

With these, were kindly mix'd together,
Their goodly Wives, or Hand-maids rather,
Because this nonconforming Sect
Ne'er Marry as our Laws direct,
Except when Lands are in the Case,
And then 'tis true they have the Grace
To save their Children from the Flaw
Of being Bastards in the Law.
The Pious Dames, amongst the rest,
Advanc'd most primitively dress'd;
The black Silk Hood, with formal Pride,
First rowl'd, beneath the Chin was ty'd
So close, so very trim and neat,
So round, so formal, so compleat,
That not one Jag of wicked Lace,
Or Rag of Linnen white had Place
Betwixt the black Bag and the Face,

Which peep'd from out the sable Hood,
Like Luna from a sullen Cloud,
That had but just a Hole to show
Her beauteous Face to us below.
The strait-lac'd puritannick Gown
They wore, was of a Colour brown,
As was the Country Ale they drank,
To make the Spirit brisk and crank,
That their Enthusiastick Light
Might shine more fancifully bright;
For G*d Almighty's Lambs, some say,
Will Tipple too, as well as Pray,
And when the Spirit moves 'em to't,
Will gratify the Flesh to boot;
For Nature will sometimes take place,
And Fancy grow too hard for Grace,
That Saints in their regen'rate State,
So much refin'd from Reprobate,

No more can stop their sinful Courses,
When Love and Liquor join their Forces,
Than Maids can manage unback'd Horses.

With Aprons green they cover'd o'er
Woman's most sinful Part before,
Except the Tongue, which some allow
Is the more wicked of the two:
But why like Milk-maids they are seen
So oft i'th' May-day Colour, Green,
With which they hide that tempting Spot
That caus'd old Adam's Fall, G*d wot,
For me, the L---d above us knows,
Except (as I suppose) because
Eve's Fig-leaf Apron that she wore,
The very self-same Colour bore?
Which decent Shift the modest Dame
Invented first to cover Shame.
So that in pious Memory
Of our old Grannam's Modesty,

They still retain the verdent Flag,
Which puts in Mind each merry Wag,
What Care our Mother Eve was in
To hide beneath an Apron green,
The very Original of Sin,
That Adam might not gaze with Wonder
At what his lovely 'Spouse had under
But that when his wild Herbal Food
Had put him in an am'rous Mood,
He should be forc'd to court his Bride
To lay the Fig-leaf Fence aside;
Which tho' for Vertue we agree
Was but a thin Security,
Yet well consid'ring Adam's Diet,
A small Defence might make him quiet;
For he that for his Living Grazes,
But little minds his Wife's Embraces.
High Feeding 'tis that makes us jolly,
And prompts the wanton Flesh to Folly:

This moves the Lambs of Grace to play,
And leads too oft their Flocks astray;
For tho' they look that one would think
They weigh'd their Vict'als and their Drink,
For fear they should by chance exceed
Their Stint of Liquor, Meat, or Bread;
Yet were you once but to inspect
The Lives of this reforming Sect,
You'd find no greater Gormondizing
Than daily they are exercising;
For tho' they look, and tho' they dress,
As if avers'd to Wickedness,
And wear such Holy Signs without 'em,
As if they hid no Vice about 'em:
Yet notwithstanding all their Shew
Of Grace, in private they pursue
Their Pleasures just as others do.
So have I seen at Christ'ning-Feast,
A Harlot so demurely drest,

She look'd as modest as a Maid
That ne'er had been to Sin betray'd,
When in her private Conversation
Sh'ad Lust enough to damn a Nation,
And tire the whole Male Generation.

As thus I strol'd along the Street,
Such Gangs and Parcels did I meet
Of these quaint primitive Dissemblers,
In old Queen Bess's Days call'd Tremblers;
For their sham Shaking, and their Shivering,
When the kind Spirit was endeavouring
With Flint of Faith, and Steel of Grace,
To strike a Light, as now-a-days
We have it in a modern Phrase,
To illuminate the Tenebrosity
Of Conscience with some strange Curiosity
In Holy Matters, that they might,
By vertue of their new-found Light,
Discover some untrodden Path,
As wild and crooked as their Faith.

I gaz'd at every Annanias,
Who seem'd so serious, and so pious,
And walk'd so stiff, as if they meant
To govern ev'ry Step they went
By th'Rules of the Old Testament;
Mix'd with their Sarah's and Rebec's,
With holy Mein and stubborn Necks,
So prim, so trim, so chast and pure,
So learn'd in Scripture, so demure,
That any Man that understood but
Their Phisiognomies, and wou'd but
Inspect their Features, they might find,
Nay, read, excepting they were blind,
Rachel and Ruth's old Godly Books
Reprinted in their very Looks:
But could we search another Part,
And read what's written in the Heart,
Perhaps we there at large might see,
In spite of all that Modesty

That sits on puritannick Brow;
O John, come Kiss me now, now, now;
For Saint, as well as sinful Creature,
Alas! must do the Deeds of Nature;
For Flesh and Blood, 'till Age prevail,
Of all Religions will be frail,
And vicious be by Starts and Fits,
According to their Appetites.
'Tis not th'external Shew of Grace
That dwells upon a Zealot's Face,
Or formal puritannick Dress,
That makes 'em wicked e'er the less;
For by Experience we have found,
That Vertue does no more abound
In quirpo Hood, or Pot-lid Hat,
In Lute-string Whisk, or Rose Cravat,
Than in the flanting high Commode,
Or Wig that does the Noddle load.
Bullies, whose Courage lies in Words,
Delight to wear huge hacking Swords,

That we by th'Length of their Toledo's,
May think 'em to be stout Bravado's;
But if Fame's Trumpet don't bely 'em,
They'll prove rank Cowards when we try 'em.
So Puritans, the World to cheat,
Appear in Garb precisely neat,
In hopes the erring Multitude,
Because they're grave, may think 'em good;
When if we try 'em, we shall find
Their Dress is but a Holy Blind
The Hypocrites put on, to hide
Their Envy, Avarice, and Pride;
Besides, Religion, Vertue, Grace,
Cannot be seated in the Face;
Nor are these Blessings seen without us,
In quaint Apparel worn about us,
But are of such a Heav'nly Kind,
They only can possess the Mind;
There form a Conscience, by whose Force
We steer an upright steady Course;

Discharge those Duties that we owe
To Heav'n, and all Mankind below;
For Mercy, Love, and Charity,
The Touch-stone of our Deeds should be.
Religious Actions must alone
By the good Fruits they bear, be known,
And ev'ry Christian-like Intent
Be constru'd by the just Event.
'Tis not a Whine, a Pine, a Groan,
A shaking Head, a canting Tone,
A leaning on a Crutched Staff,
A Hypocritick Frown or Laugh,
That shew the Vertues of the Mind,
Or how the Heart does stand inclin'd.
Our outwards Actions best will tell,
Whether the Mind meant ill or well;
Or else short-sighted Human Nature
Can no ways judge of's Fellow-Creature;
For Human Knowledge first commences
From Things demonstrate to our Senses.

What lies beyond's no more or less,
Than barely an uncertain Guess.

As these by Notions fill'd my Pate,
The scatter'd Flock grew still more great,
Creeping as slow as slimy Snail
In Vict'lars Cellar fill'd with Ale.
I wonder'd, as I march'd along,
At this strange puritannick Throng:
Thought I, what sudden Reformation
Has sanctify'd our English Nation,
That Crowds of Ramsy's Saints thus meet
At ev'ry Corner of the Street?
Thus pond'ring on these Holy Streams
Of Zealots, who rely on Dreams;
Those old Enthusiastick Cheats,
The Products of their Drunken Fits;
At last it jump'd into my Head,
That at the Time of Whitsun-Tide,
The Q---s Yearly think it fitting
To hold in Town a Gen'ral Meeting,

That distant Friends may talk with Friends,
The better to effect their Ends,
And some new subtle Means provide
To cozen all Mankind beside.
Thought I, since now I recollect
The weighty Bus'ness of your Sect,
I'll e'en attend you in the Rear,
And see where 'tis you mean to steer.
Accordingly I took my Post,
Lieutenant Gen'ral of the Host,
The better to observe (G*d love 'em)
Which way the Spirit meant to move 'em;
That Ignis Fatuus, which betrays
Dull F---ls into erroneous Ways;
That flaming Vapour of Conceit,
Produc'd i'th' Brain by Slime and Heat;
That false Enthusiastick Light
Which leads Men wrong, instead of right;
That glim'ring Ray, which fiery Zeal
Can only to dark Souls reveal;

That Spark, which wiser Heads less mind,
Than the poop Lanthorn which we find
Seated in Glow-Worm's Arse behind.

FINIS.