University of Virginia Library

AN HEROICAL EPISTLE OF HUDIBRAS TO SIDROPHEL.

Well Sidrophel, though 'tis in vain
To tamper with your Crazy Brain,
Without Trepanning of your Scull,
As often as the Moon's at Full:
'Tis not amiss, ere y'are giv'n o'er,
To try one desp'rate Med'cine more:
For where your Case can be no worse,
The desp'rat'st is the wisest course.
Is't possible, that you, whose Ears
Are of the Tribe of Issachars,
And might (with equal Reason) either
For Merit, or extent of Leather,
With William Pryn's, before they were
Retrench'd, and Crucifi'd compare,
Should yet be deaf against a noise
So roaring as the Publick Voice?
That speaks your virtues free and loud,
And openly in ev'ry croud,
As loud as one that sings his part
T'a Wheel-barrow or Turnip Cart,—
Or your new Nicknam'd old Invention,
To cry Green Hastings with an Engine.
(As if the vehemence had stun'd,
And torn your Drum-heads with the sound)
And 'cause your Folly's now no news,
But over-grown and out of use.
Persuade your self there's no such matter,
But that 'tis vanish'd out of Nature,
When Folly, as it grows in years,
The more extravagant appears.
For who but you could be possest
With so much Ignorance, and Beast,
That neither all mens Scorn, and Hate,
Nor being Laugh'd and Pointed at,
Nor bray'd so often in a Morter,
Can teach you wholesome Sense, and Nurture?
But (like a Reprobate) what course
S'ever's us'd, grow worse and worse?
Can no Transfusion of the Blood,
That makes Fools Cattle, do you good?
Nor putting Pigs t'a Bitch to Nurse,
To turn 'em into Mungrel-Curs,
Put you into a way, at least,
To make your self a better Beast?
Can all your critical Intrigues
Of trying sound from rotten Eggs;
Your several Newfound Remedies,
Of curing Wounds, and Scabs in Trees;
Your Arts of Fluxing them from Claps,
And Purging their infected Saps,
Recov'ring Shankers, Chrystallines,
And Nodes and Botches in their Rindes,
Have no effect to operate
Upon that duller Block, your Pate,
But still it must be lewdly bent
To tempt your own due Punishment—?
And like your whimsey'd Chariots draw
The Boys to course you without Law?
As if the Art you have so long
Profest, of making old Dogs young,
In you had Virtue to renew
Not only Youth, but Childhood too.
Can you, that understand all Books
By Judging only with your Looks,
Resolve all Problems with your Face,
As others do with B's, and A's,
Unriddle all that Mankind knows
With solid bending of your Brows,
All Arts and Sciences advance,
With screwing of your Countenance,
And with a penetrating Eye,
Into th' abstrusest Learning pry,
Know more of any Trade b'a hint,
Than those that have been bred up in't,
And yet have no Art true, or false
To help your own bad Naturals?
But still the more you strive t'appear,
Are found to be the wretcheder.
For Fools are known by looking wise,
As Men find Woodcocks by their Eies.
Hence 'tis, that 'cause y'have gain'd o'th' Colledge,
A Quarter-share (at most) of Knowledge,
And brought in none, but spent Repute,
Y'assume a Pow'r as absolute
To Judge and Censure, and Controll,
As if you were the sole Sir Poll
And saucily pretend to know
More than your Dividend comes to,
You'll find the thing will not be done,
With Ignorance, and Face alone:
No though y'have purchas'd to your Name,
In History so great a Fame,
That now your Talent's so well known,
For having all Belief outgrown;
That ev'ry strange Prodigious Tale
Is measur'd by your German Scale,—
By which the Virtuosi try
The Magnitude of ev'ry Ly,
Cast up to what it does amount:
And place the big'st to your account.
That all those stories that are lai'd
Too truely to you, and those made,
Are now still charg'd upon your score,
And lesser Authors nam'd no more.
Alas that Faculty destroys
Those soonest, it designs to raise.
And all your vain Renown will spoil,
As Guns o're-charg'd the more recoyl.
Though he that has but Impudence
To all things has a fair Pretence
And put among his wants, but shame,
To all the world may lay his claim:
Though you have try'd that nothing's born
With greater ease than Publique Scorn;
That all affronts do still give Place
To your Impenetrable Face;
That makes your way through all affairs,
As Pigs through Hedges creep with theirs.
Yet as 'tis Counterfeit and Brass
You must not think 'twill always pass
For all Impostors, when they'r known,
Are past their Labor, and undone.
And all the best that can befall
An Artificial Natural,
Is that which Madmen find, as soon
As once th' are broke loose from the Moon
And proof against her Influence,
Relapse to ere so little Sense
To turn stark Fools, and Subjects fit
For sport of Boys, and Rabble-wit.