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] |
 |
|
| I. |
| 1. |
| I. |
| II. |
| 2. |
| III. |
| 3. |
| IV. |
| 4. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| 5. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| 6. |
| IX. |
| 7. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| 8. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| 9. |
| XIV. |
| 10. |
| XV. |
| 11. |
| XVI. |
| 12. |
| XVII. |
| II. |
| 1. |
| I. |
| 2. |
| II. |
| 3. |
| III. |
| 4. |
| IV. |
| 5. |
| V. |
| 6. |
| VI. |
| 7. |
| VII. | CANTO VII. |
| 8. |
| VIII. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| IX. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
 | Hudibras Redivivus |  |
3
CANTO VII.
Oh! the sad Day, when Guido's Crew
Had like to've blown up God knows who!
And by a dismal Powder-Plot,
Destroy'd, no mortal Man knows what!
Then who can sing the Tragick Scene
That might in such a Case have been,
Since none can possibly declare
The Fate of Things that never were?
So, tho' 'tis likely there may be
Some strange, mysterious Verity
In old bifarious Prophesy,
Yet we the Truth can ne'er discover,
Until the Things foretold, are over.
How then should we, in doleful Verse,
Those sad Calamities rehearse,
Which would have follow'd, ten to one,
In Case the Mischief had been done?
But the vile Plot was disappointed
By th' Lord, or else the Lord's Anointed,
Who, as some People do suppose,
Had got so excellent a Nose,
That he could smell out Powder-Treason,
Like a Jack-daw in Cherry-Season,
Who is too shy to be undone
By sudden Pop of Gard'ner's Gun:
Therefore the Plot they were designing,
Jacobus smelt from its beginning,
And knew as well how they had laid it,
As those vile Jesuits that made it:
So that the Powder ne'er took Fire
According to the Pope's Desire,
Because there chanc'd a happy Slip
Betwixt the Goblet and the Lip.
Thus, since the lighted Match in vain
Was laid to the infernal Train,
We, that in after Ages live,
And swallow what Account they give,
Should think it difficult to know
The Truth of Things so long ago,
Since wicked Plots of later Date,
Betwixt the People and the State,
Have puzzl'd many a prudent Man,
To find by which they were began,
Because each wiser Head may see,
In every great Discovery,
The Fox, who is the crafty Finder,
Does oft project, as well as hinder,
And as our Highway-men now do,
Proves Actor and Discov'rer too.
Thus cunning Knaves the Mischief lay,
Draw others in, and then betray.
However, whether known or not,
How 'twas begun, the Plot's a Plot,
That serves the Rabble to remember
Upon the fifth Day of November;
A pions Time when ragged Popes,
With Pastboard Crowns, and Paper Copes,
Are hoisted on the Rabbles Shoulders,
To please fanatical Beholders;
Who, tho' they in Oblivion bury,
The thirtieth Day of January,
Yet is their due Abhorrence shown
Of e'ery Plot, except their own;
And as for those, if they miscarry,
They turn the Handle quite contrary;
By which dissenting Subtility,
They keep themselves from Scandal free,
And fix the Blame on Popery:
For Saints too cunning are, to boast
Their Plots, when the Success is lost,
Tho' none can glory more, we see,
Than they in prosp'rous Villany,
Or look with greater Scorn upon
Those Suff'rers they have once undone.
Just so the fierce and cruel Cat,
That catches Mouse, or conquers Rat,
Does with her trembling Victim play,
And triumph o'er her dying Prey.
Had like to've blown up God knows who!
And by a dismal Powder-Plot,
Destroy'd, no mortal Man knows what!
Then who can sing the Tragick Scene
That might in such a Case have been,
Since none can possibly declare
The Fate of Things that never were?
So, tho' 'tis likely there may be
Some strange, mysterious Verity
In old bifarious Prophesy,
4
Until the Things foretold, are over.
How then should we, in doleful Verse,
Those sad Calamities rehearse,
Which would have follow'd, ten to one,
In Case the Mischief had been done?
But the vile Plot was disappointed
By th' Lord, or else the Lord's Anointed,
Who, as some People do suppose,
Had got so excellent a Nose,
That he could smell out Powder-Treason,
Like a Jack-daw in Cherry-Season,
Who is too shy to be undone
By sudden Pop of Gard'ner's Gun:
Therefore the Plot they were designing,
Jacobus smelt from its beginning,
And knew as well how they had laid it,
As those vile Jesuits that made it:
So that the Powder ne'er took Fire
According to the Pope's Desire,
5
Betwixt the Goblet and the Lip.
Thus, since the lighted Match in vain
Was laid to the infernal Train,
We, that in after Ages live,
And swallow what Account they give,
Should think it difficult to know
The Truth of Things so long ago,
Since wicked Plots of later Date,
Betwixt the People and the State,
Have puzzl'd many a prudent Man,
To find by which they were began,
Because each wiser Head may see,
In every great Discovery,
The Fox, who is the crafty Finder,
Does oft project, as well as hinder,
And as our Highway-men now do,
Proves Actor and Discov'rer too.
Thus cunning Knaves the Mischief lay,
Draw others in, and then betray.
6
How 'twas begun, the Plot's a Plot,
That serves the Rabble to remember
Upon the fifth Day of November;
A pions Time when ragged Popes,
With Pastboard Crowns, and Paper Copes,
Are hoisted on the Rabbles Shoulders,
To please fanatical Beholders;
Who, tho' they in Oblivion bury,
The thirtieth Day of January,
Yet is their due Abhorrence shown
Of e'ery Plot, except their own;
And as for those, if they miscarry,
They turn the Handle quite contrary;
By which dissenting Subtility,
They keep themselves from Scandal free,
And fix the Blame on Popery:
For Saints too cunning are, to boast
Their Plots, when the Success is lost,
7
Than they in prosp'rous Villany,
Or look with greater Scorn upon
Those Suff'rers they have once undone.
Just so the fierce and cruel Cat,
That catches Mouse, or conquers Rat,
Does with her trembling Victim play,
And triumph o'er her dying Prey.
When jangling Bells from e'ery Steeple
Proclaim'd aloud to all good People,
That now the joyful Day was come,
That freed the Nation from the Doom
Pronounc'd against the Land by Rome;
The Mem'ry of which Powder-Plot,
Made all the Rabbles Brains so hot,
That tow'rds the Ev'ning, Men and Boys
Fill'd e'ery Street with hideous Noise,
All threat'ning, by their brutish Rudeness,
Much Mischief, and excessive Lewdness;
That by their Actions, we might see,
The good Reverse of Popery.
'Twas then, about the Hour of six,
When Boys were stealing Tubs and Sticks,
And lustier Mob, to please their Maggots,
Were begging Pence to purchase Faggots,
That I was jogging Home, to shun
Those Revels which were just begun:
But as I walk'd along, tho' Night,
Each Window shone so very bright,
By Dint of Rush and Cotton Light,
That when our late Dutch Sov'reign came
From Amster, Brill, or Rotterdam,
The City Saints could not consume
More Tallow, sure, to light him Home;
Which shew'd, when he Abroad had been,
Vent'ring his Corps, which was but lean,
That we as forward were to burn
Our Fat, to welcome his Return.
Proclaim'd aloud to all good People,
That now the joyful Day was come,
That freed the Nation from the Doom
Pronounc'd against the Land by Rome;
The Mem'ry of which Powder-Plot,
Made all the Rabbles Brains so hot,
That tow'rds the Ev'ning, Men and Boys
Fill'd e'ery Street with hideous Noise,
All threat'ning, by their brutish Rudeness,
Much Mischief, and excessive Lewdness;
8
The good Reverse of Popery.
'Twas then, about the Hour of six,
When Boys were stealing Tubs and Sticks,
And lustier Mob, to please their Maggots,
Were begging Pence to purchase Faggots,
That I was jogging Home, to shun
Those Revels which were just begun:
But as I walk'd along, tho' Night,
Each Window shone so very bright,
By Dint of Rush and Cotton Light,
That when our late Dutch Sov'reign came
From Amster, Brill, or Rotterdam,
The City Saints could not consume
More Tallow, sure, to light him Home;
Which shew'd, when he Abroad had been,
Vent'ring his Corps, which was but lean,
That we as forward were to burn
Our Fat, to welcome his Return.
9
I gaz'd about from side to side,
To view the City's Zeal and Pride,
Express'd in Candles, shining round,
From four, to twenty in the Pound,
Mounted in Candle-sticks of Clay,
Which just before o'er Bung-hole lay,
But now were model'd into Sockets,
For flaming Lights, that shone like Rockets.
These, by the City Maids and Dames,
Were stuck upon their Window-Frames,
From the first Story, to the Garret,
For all the noisy Mob to stare at.
The Candles in each shining Pile,
Like Soldiers stood in Rank and File,
To show us how the Dames within
Were skill'd in Marshal Discipline;
And tho', perhaps, not quite so fair,
That yet like Venus, they could bear
The Onsets of the God of War:
For lesser Beauty's, by their Charms,
May foil a valiant Man at Arms;
Since only those, at Kick and Cuff,
Are beat, that cry they have enough;
But when at Push a Pike we play
With Beauty, who shall win the Day,
Her Courage so profusely great is,
That still we find her Nunquam satis.
To view the City's Zeal and Pride,
Express'd in Candles, shining round,
From four, to twenty in the Pound,
Mounted in Candle-sticks of Clay,
Which just before o'er Bung-hole lay,
But now were model'd into Sockets,
For flaming Lights, that shone like Rockets.
These, by the City Maids and Dames,
Were stuck upon their Window-Frames,
From the first Story, to the Garret,
For all the noisy Mob to stare at.
The Candles in each shining Pile,
Like Soldiers stood in Rank and File,
To show us how the Dames within
Were skill'd in Marshal Discipline;
And tho', perhaps, not quite so fair,
That yet like Venus, they could bear
The Onsets of the God of War:
10
May foil a valiant Man at Arms;
Since only those, at Kick and Cuff,
Are beat, that cry they have enough;
But when at Push a Pike we play
With Beauty, who shall win the Day,
Her Courage so profusely great is,
That still we find her Nunquam satis.
Lighted on e'ery Side, along
Amidst a strange infernal Throng
I sail'd, in this tempestuous Flood
Of Mob, as safely as I cou'd,
Who, like rebellious rising Slaves,
Were arm'd with such unlawful Staves,
As if, like Naples stubborn Rabble,
They'd quarrell'd with some Tax or Gabel,
And were resolv'd to chuse a Fellow,
To rule the Roast like Massanello.
Amidst a strange infernal Throng
I sail'd, in this tempestuous Flood
Of Mob, as safely as I cou'd,
Who, like rebellious rising Slaves,
Were arm'd with such unlawful Staves,
As if, like Naples stubborn Rabble,
They'd quarrell'd with some Tax or Gabel,
And were resolv'd to chuse a Fellow,
To rule the Roast like Massanello.
At last, before a House I came,
That made no Show of Candle Flame;
Whatever Light there was within,
No glim'ring Cranny could be seen,
But all appear'd as black without
As a Dark-Lanthorn closely shut.
So ho, my Lads! crys Captain Tom,
Where are you, Boys? Pray hither come;
This House, I'm sure, without a Light,
Belongs to some damn'd Jacobite,
Or else, upon a Day so blest,
He'd put out Candles, like the rest:
Thump at the Door, demand the Reason,
Why they forget the Powder-Treason?
Command 'em, on this grand Occasion,
To put out some Illumination;
Or, by my Club, if they deny,
And will not readily comply,
We'll make the Popish Rogues remember
Their Powder-Plotting in November.
No sooner had this Babe of Grace,
With brimless Cap, and colly'd Face,
His great Command most proudly given,
But to the Door stept six or seven,
And with the Knocker, and their Kicks,
Their short Battoons, their Staves and Sticks.
They gave the Door such Bangs and Drubs,
That fifty Coopers hooping Tubs,
Were Jews Trumps, to their noisy Clubs:
But still no mortal Soul appear'd,
In Answer to the scoundrel Herd.
When Captain Tom, and all his Rout,
Perceiv'd the Garrison so stout,
They'd not capit'late with his Forces,
He storm'd 'em then with Oaths and Curses,
And upwards cast an Eye, to see
What Glass-Works there aloft might be.
But the Besieg'd had been so wise,
To guard themselves against Surprize,
And by strong Shutters, fix'd without,
Secur'd their Windows from the Rout,
Who otherwise, with Dirt and Stone,
Had soon unglaz'd 'em e'ery one.
But when they found the House defended
Against those Mischiefs they intended,
And that in vain they cast their Pellets,
(Hard Words were Shot, instead of Bullets,
The old fanatick Way to rail,
When other Plots and Projects fail,
For Scandal will sometimes obtain
That End, which Violence cannot gain;
'Tis that of late, instead of Force,
That sets the Cart before the Horse;
Does Virtue daily overthrow,
And keeps industrious Merit low;
Whilst those that use the shameful Means,
Grow fat, like Hogs in others Beans.)
That made no Show of Candle Flame;
11
No glim'ring Cranny could be seen,
But all appear'd as black without
As a Dark-Lanthorn closely shut.
So ho, my Lads! crys Captain Tom,
Where are you, Boys? Pray hither come;
This House, I'm sure, without a Light,
Belongs to some damn'd Jacobite,
Or else, upon a Day so blest,
He'd put out Candles, like the rest:
Thump at the Door, demand the Reason,
Why they forget the Powder-Treason?
Command 'em, on this grand Occasion,
To put out some Illumination;
Or, by my Club, if they deny,
And will not readily comply,
We'll make the Popish Rogues remember
Their Powder-Plotting in November.
No sooner had this Babe of Grace,
With brimless Cap, and colly'd Face,
12
But to the Door stept six or seven,
And with the Knocker, and their Kicks,
Their short Battoons, their Staves and Sticks.
They gave the Door such Bangs and Drubs,
That fifty Coopers hooping Tubs,
Were Jews Trumps, to their noisy Clubs:
But still no mortal Soul appear'd,
In Answer to the scoundrel Herd.
When Captain Tom, and all his Rout,
Perceiv'd the Garrison so stout,
They'd not capit'late with his Forces,
He storm'd 'em then with Oaths and Curses,
And upwards cast an Eye, to see
What Glass-Works there aloft might be.
But the Besieg'd had been so wise,
To guard themselves against Surprize,
And by strong Shutters, fix'd without,
Secur'd their Windows from the Rout,
13
Had soon unglaz'd 'em e'ery one.
But when they found the House defended
Against those Mischiefs they intended,
And that in vain they cast their Pellets,
(Hard Words were Shot, instead of Bullets,
The old fanatick Way to rail,
When other Plots and Projects fail,
For Scandal will sometimes obtain
That End, which Violence cannot gain;
'Tis that of late, instead of Force,
That sets the Cart before the Horse;
Does Virtue daily overthrow,
And keeps industrious Merit low;
Whilst those that use the shameful Means,
Grow fat, like Hogs in others Beans.)
The Rabble finding that their Sport,
Which only lies in doing Hurt,
Was disappointed by the Craft
Of those that sat within and laught,
They damn'd all Papists in a Rage,
And quitted their successless Seige.
Thus in a hurry they retir'd,
With Low-Church Indignation fir'd,
To think they could not use their Spite
To him, who for the want of Light,
Was branded as a Jacobite.
Thought I, before I farther go,
I'll, by Enquiry, try to know
Upon what Faith this Man's Relyance
Is, who durst bid the Mob Defyance?
And without changing of my Ground,
I soon inquisitively found,
The Family so much suspected
Of being Popishly affected,
Were, to the Glory and the Praise
Of W---m P---n, all Yea's and Nay's,
And therefore wisely thought it right
To only mind the inward Light,
And not prophane their Habitation
By outward vain Illumination.
Thought I, those Quaking Saints, I see,
That do not with the Crowd agree,
Must bear a Portion of the Wrongs
That daily flow from wicked Tongues;
Therefore what Credit can be given
To th' Scum of Earth, and Scorn of Heaven,
Since sober Men, that hate the Rude
Distractions of a Multitude,
Must suffer in some odious way,
Because they're not as mad as they?
How foolish, or at least, how knavish?
How domineering, or how slavish
Must they appear, who mind the Babble
Of such a curs'd fanatick Rabble,
Who're taught, with Crys of Popes and Devils,
To justify their own base Evils,
Encourag'd purely to enslave
The Wise, the Virtuous, and the Brave,
Who scorn the Fool, and hate the Knave?
Which only lies in doing Hurt,
Was disappointed by the Craft
Of those that sat within and laught,
14
And quitted their successless Seige.
Thus in a hurry they retir'd,
With Low-Church Indignation fir'd,
To think they could not use their Spite
To him, who for the want of Light,
Was branded as a Jacobite.
Thought I, before I farther go,
I'll, by Enquiry, try to know
Upon what Faith this Man's Relyance
Is, who durst bid the Mob Defyance?
And without changing of my Ground,
I soon inquisitively found,
The Family so much suspected
Of being Popishly affected,
Were, to the Glory and the Praise
Of W---m P---n, all Yea's and Nay's,
And therefore wisely thought it right
To only mind the inward Light,
15
By outward vain Illumination.
Thought I, those Quaking Saints, I see,
That do not with the Crowd agree,
Must bear a Portion of the Wrongs
That daily flow from wicked Tongues;
Therefore what Credit can be given
To th' Scum of Earth, and Scorn of Heaven,
Since sober Men, that hate the Rude
Distractions of a Multitude,
Must suffer in some odious way,
Because they're not as mad as they?
How foolish, or at least, how knavish?
How domineering, or how slavish
Must they appear, who mind the Babble
Of such a curs'd fanatick Rabble,
Who're taught, with Crys of Popes and Devils,
To justify their own base Evils,
16
The Wise, the Virtuous, and the Brave,
Who scorn the Fool, and hate the Knave?
From hence the giddy World may see
The honest Man, that can't agree
In every Folly with the rest,
Must live despis'd, and much oppress'd.
Nor is the Cant of Moderation
Design'd to soberrize the Nation,
But a meer Plot, profoundly laid,
To make us all alike run mad:
And he that will not sacrifice
His Reason to the grand Device,
Must fall a Victim to the Rage
Of cunning Knaves, who mount the Stage,
And madly with the rest engage.
'Tis true, the Scene is Reformation,
A Picture very much in Fashion,
And tho' alive it seems to be,
'Tis but dead Col'ring that we see.
So Temples, Woods, and Groves appear
At Distance in the Theatre;
But if we once so near approach,
That we the painted Cloth can touch,
We then discover the Deceit,
And find it but an artful Cheat.
The honest Man, that can't agree
In every Folly with the rest,
Must live despis'd, and much oppress'd.
Nor is the Cant of Moderation
Design'd to soberrize the Nation,
But a meer Plot, profoundly laid,
To make us all alike run mad:
And he that will not sacrifice
His Reason to the grand Device,
Must fall a Victim to the Rage
Of cunning Knaves, who mount the Stage,
And madly with the rest engage.
'Tis true, the Scene is Reformation,
A Picture very much in Fashion,
And tho' alive it seems to be,
'Tis but dead Col'ring that we see.
17
At Distance in the Theatre;
But if we once so near approach,
That we the painted Cloth can touch,
We then discover the Deceit,
And find it but an artful Cheat.
Thus walking, full of Care and Thought,
As Men that live by Thinking, ought;
At length I met a frantick Crowd,
Roaring in Triumph very loud,
Ratling their Clubs above their Noddles,
And kicking Dirt from miry Puddles,
To disoblige each other's Rags,
That hung in Tatters, and in Jags;
I'th' Front sat mounted on a Bier,
A Pope for Children to admire,
Condemn'd, as I suppose, to th'Fire;
His Face was such a frightful Vizard,
That look'd more ghastly than a Wizard,
His holy Nose b'ing something greater
Than that which grac'd our late Salvator;
Beneath which Member, hung a Chin,
As long as Tuffen's, and as lean;
To which was tagg'd a Horse-Hair Beard,
That made each gazing Child affear'd,
And caus'd him, in Surprize, to fly
From stern Infallibility.
A tripple Crown the B---p wore,
Built up three Story high, or more,
Guilt o'er, to show the Pride of those
That lead whole Kingdoms by the Nose;
Those Enemies to human Ease,
That plague the Publick as they please,
And triumph o'er Mens Consciences.
As Men that live by Thinking, ought;
At length I met a frantick Crowd,
Roaring in Triumph very loud,
Ratling their Clubs above their Noddles,
And kicking Dirt from miry Puddles,
To disoblige each other's Rags,
That hung in Tatters, and in Jags;
I'th' Front sat mounted on a Bier,
A Pope for Children to admire,
Condemn'd, as I suppose, to th'Fire;
His Face was such a frightful Vizard,
That look'd more ghastly than a Wizard,
18
Than that which grac'd our late Salvator;
Beneath which Member, hung a Chin,
As long as Tuffen's, and as lean;
To which was tagg'd a Horse-Hair Beard,
That made each gazing Child affear'd,
And caus'd him, in Surprize, to fly
From stern Infallibility.
A tripple Crown the B---p wore,
Built up three Story high, or more,
Guilt o'er, to show the Pride of those
That lead whole Kingdoms by the Nose;
Those Enemies to human Ease,
That plague the Publick as they please,
And triumph o'er Mens Consciences.
In Spite to th' Whore of Babylon,
Th' 'ad put the holy Puppit on
A Surplice, made of ancient Smocks,
Fit only for the Tinder-box
Given by Female Saints, to cover
His scare-crow Holiness all over;
Who, tho' without, he seem'd to be
The Image of rank Popery,
Yet were his Antichristian Guts
Stuff'd with fanatick Rags and Clouts;
Which shews, altho' some Men dispence
With wearing Popish Ornaments,
Yet could their Insides but be seen,
You'd find 'em Puritans within;
Or else no false dissembling Brother
Would look one way, and row another;
Or would the Papists, Tooth and Nail,
Add Weight to the fanatick Scale,
Were not their Insides near related
To those by whom we think they're hated;
When, if we search 'em, we should find
Both were exactly of a Mind;
And tho' they are sometimes at Strife,
Like a proud Man, and haughty Wife,
Who give each other Scars and Scratches
In Contests, who shall wear the Breeches;
Yet will they lovingly unite,
And join their Forces and their Spite
Against the Man, who in the Hurry
Steps in to reconcile their Fury,
Who quarrel for no other Ends,
But to become the greater Friends.
So the old Babylonian Blouze,
And her demure fanatick Spouse,
Altho' they rave, and seem to quarrel,
Like Tinkers o'er a strong Beer Barrel;
Yet can they readily agree,
And cease their wonted Enmity,
To pull down those that stand between 'em,
As once already we have seen 'em:
Therefore 'twould surely be a Crime,
Not to beware the second Time,
Since fighting Dogs will quit their Hold,
To worry what's their Game of old.
Th' 'ad put the holy Puppit on
A Surplice, made of ancient Smocks,
Fit only for the Tinder-box
19
His scare-crow Holiness all over;
Who, tho' without, he seem'd to be
The Image of rank Popery,
Yet were his Antichristian Guts
Stuff'd with fanatick Rags and Clouts;
Which shews, altho' some Men dispence
With wearing Popish Ornaments,
Yet could their Insides but be seen,
You'd find 'em Puritans within;
Or else no false dissembling Brother
Would look one way, and row another;
Or would the Papists, Tooth and Nail,
Add Weight to the fanatick Scale,
Were not their Insides near related
To those by whom we think they're hated;
When, if we search 'em, we should find
Both were exactly of a Mind;
And tho' they are sometimes at Strife,
Like a proud Man, and haughty Wife,
20
In Contests, who shall wear the Breeches;
Yet will they lovingly unite,
And join their Forces and their Spite
Against the Man, who in the Hurry
Steps in to reconcile their Fury,
Who quarrel for no other Ends,
But to become the greater Friends.
So the old Babylonian Blouze,
And her demure fanatick Spouse,
Altho' they rave, and seem to quarrel,
Like Tinkers o'er a strong Beer Barrel;
Yet can they readily agree,
And cease their wonted Enmity,
To pull down those that stand between 'em,
As once already we have seen 'em:
Therefore 'twould surely be a Crime,
Not to beware the second Time,
Since fighting Dogs will quit their Hold,
To worry what's their Game of old.
21
Behind this Papal Image, stood
A Devil made of Flesh and Blood,
Some little sooty Chimney-sweep,
Who, with the Cry of Fast asleep,
Us'd to awake the drouzy Maids,
And early raise the lazy Jades;
This little Imp such Gestures show'd,
That caus'd much Laughter in the Crowd,
Who were so tickl'd, and so pleas'd,
To see his Holiness so teaz'd,
As if they thought the Dev'l was meant
For Pastime, more than Punishment;
And that each noisy Raggamuffin
Believ'd the black infernal Ruffin
Was destin'd for their Sport, to be
A Scaramouch to Popery;
And that his Darkship was unable
To terrify an English Rabble,
Secure beneath the Nomination
Of Protestant; to which Profession
As well as to its sacred Name,
They're both a Horror, and a Shame.
A Devil made of Flesh and Blood,
Some little sooty Chimney-sweep,
Who, with the Cry of Fast asleep,
Us'd to awake the drouzy Maids,
And early raise the lazy Jades;
This little Imp such Gestures show'd,
That caus'd much Laughter in the Crowd,
Who were so tickl'd, and so pleas'd,
To see his Holiness so teaz'd,
As if they thought the Dev'l was meant
For Pastime, more than Punishment;
And that each noisy Raggamuffin
Believ'd the black infernal Ruffin
Was destin'd for their Sport, to be
A Scaramouch to Popery;
And that his Darkship was unable
To terrify an English Rabble,
Secure beneath the Nomination
Of Protestant; to which Profession
22
They're both a Horror, and a Shame.
Behind this Babylonian Whore,
About the Streets in Triumph bore
A younger Fry of mobbish Vermin,
The Sons of Porters, and of Carmen,
With Paper Miters round their Skulls,
Walk'd on in State, as Cardinals;
Each in his dirty right Hand bore
Cross'd Lath, instead of Crosier,
And from their left a Necklace hung,
By their fanatick Mothers strung;
And to their forward Children lent,
Thro' Zeal, with a devout Intent
To ridicule the Popish Way
Of using Trinkets when they pray;
Altho' the little heath'nish Race,
So void of Sense, as well as Grace,
Perhaps were so untaught, that they,
Their Pater-Noster could not say
With Beads, or any other Way;
For in this pious Christian Nation,
There is a vip'rous Congregation
Instructed daily to forbear
Our Father, as a Popish Pray'r:
Therefore, what Wonder can it be
For righteous Men to weep, and see
Religion made the Ridicule
Of e'ery canting Knave and Fool?
Who wear it in no other Places,
But in their Gestures, and their Faces;
And think it of no other Force,
Than fit to be a stalking-Horse
To Wordly Int'rest, and their Pride,
And many vicious Ends beside;
Nay, use it as the very Hinge,
On which they open their Revenge,
And shut Preferment's heavy Gate
Upon the Heels of those they hate;
Such who're too conscious to agree
With e'ery pious Villany,
And scorn to bend their honest Wits
To painted Frauds, and holy Cheats.
About the Streets in Triumph bore
A younger Fry of mobbish Vermin,
The Sons of Porters, and of Carmen,
With Paper Miters round their Skulls,
Walk'd on in State, as Cardinals;
Each in his dirty right Hand bore
Cross'd Lath, instead of Crosier,
And from their left a Necklace hung,
By their fanatick Mothers strung;
And to their forward Children lent,
Thro' Zeal, with a devout Intent
To ridicule the Popish Way
Of using Trinkets when they pray;
Altho' the little heath'nish Race,
So void of Sense, as well as Grace,
23
Their Pater-Noster could not say
With Beads, or any other Way;
For in this pious Christian Nation,
There is a vip'rous Congregation
Instructed daily to forbear
Our Father, as a Popish Pray'r:
Therefore, what Wonder can it be
For righteous Men to weep, and see
Religion made the Ridicule
Of e'ery canting Knave and Fool?
Who wear it in no other Places,
But in their Gestures, and their Faces;
And think it of no other Force,
Than fit to be a stalking-Horse
To Wordly Int'rest, and their Pride,
And many vicious Ends beside;
Nay, use it as the very Hinge,
On which they open their Revenge,
24
Upon the Heels of those they hate;
Such who're too conscious to agree
With e'ery pious Villany,
And scorn to bend their honest Wits
To painted Frauds, and holy Cheats.
In Triumph, thus the Popish Bauble
Was carry'd by the scoundrel Rabble,
Attended by a ragged Crew
Of Link-boys, and the Lord knows who!
Made Cardinals for this good Night,
The more t' improve the frantick Sight,
That reeling Saints, as drunk as Rats,
Might leer beneath their Pot-lid Hats,
And laugh to see their Tools, the Rabble,
So fit, so willing, and so able,
To pull down what they deem as Babel;
For thus our Puritannick Friends
Accomplish their revengeful Ends;
They trembling first, proclaim a Fear
Of some strange Popish Danger near,
And under this demure Pretence,
Devoutly labour to insense
The giddy Mob, those heath'nish Creatures,
Against the Pope, and his Abettors:
And when the Saints have thus prepar'd
The Hydra for their Body-Guard,
They boldly then dare strike their Blow,
To drive that Nail they mean should go;
And he that durst oppose their grand
Design, and their Intrigues withstand,
'Tis but their crying, He's suspected
Of being Popishly affected,
And soon the base unthinking Crowd
Will cry the Infamy aloud,
And by the Help of common Fame,
So fix the Antichristian Name,
That all Efforts shall prove in vain
To cleanse him from the odious Stain;
For as he washes, still they watch him,
And fling more Dirt where e'er they catch him;
So that in fresh Attacks they cast
Their Lies and Calumnies so fast,
That make him truckle, and decline
Opposing every base Design
Carr'd on against the publick Safety
T' advance the Godly and the Crafty:
Nor do they stop, 'till they exclude,
By th' Clamours of the Multitude,
Those Persons whom they fear or hate,
From all Employments in the State.
By Machiavillian Arts like these,
The Saints accomplish what they please,
And gain more Footting by degrees.
So angry Statesmen, to foment
Our Jealousies of Government,
Fill with false Tales the Rabbles Mouths,
Who eccho round the base Untruths,
And make the giddy Vulgar fear
Evils remote the Lord knows where,
Whilst in the Grass a Serpent lies
Obscur'd by Shams from common Eyes,
Design'd to overturn the State,
And make the vile Projector Great.
If therefore you'd be free from Wrongs,
Ne'er listen to the Rabbles Tongues;
For all Distractions and Confusions,
Domestick Wars and Revolutions,
Are elbow'd on by those vile Wretches,
Whom Heav'n abhors, and Hell bewitches.
Was carry'd by the scoundrel Rabble,
Attended by a ragged Crew
Of Link-boys, and the Lord knows who!
Made Cardinals for this good Night,
The more t' improve the frantick Sight,
That reeling Saints, as drunk as Rats,
Might leer beneath their Pot-lid Hats,
And laugh to see their Tools, the Rabble,
So fit, so willing, and so able,
To pull down what they deem as Babel;
For thus our Puritannick Friends
Accomplish their revengeful Ends;
25
Of some strange Popish Danger near,
And under this demure Pretence,
Devoutly labour to insense
The giddy Mob, those heath'nish Creatures,
Against the Pope, and his Abettors:
And when the Saints have thus prepar'd
The Hydra for their Body-Guard,
They boldly then dare strike their Blow,
To drive that Nail they mean should go;
And he that durst oppose their grand
Design, and their Intrigues withstand,
'Tis but their crying, He's suspected
Of being Popishly affected,
And soon the base unthinking Crowd
Will cry the Infamy aloud,
And by the Help of common Fame,
So fix the Antichristian Name,
That all Efforts shall prove in vain
To cleanse him from the odious Stain;
26
And fling more Dirt where e'er they catch him;
So that in fresh Attacks they cast
Their Lies and Calumnies so fast,
That make him truckle, and decline
Opposing every base Design
Carr'd on against the publick Safety
T' advance the Godly and the Crafty:
Nor do they stop, 'till they exclude,
By th' Clamours of the Multitude,
Those Persons whom they fear or hate,
From all Employments in the State.
By Machiavillian Arts like these,
The Saints accomplish what they please,
And gain more Footting by degrees.
So angry Statesmen, to foment
Our Jealousies of Government,
Fill with false Tales the Rabbles Mouths,
Who eccho round the base Untruths,
27
Evils remote the Lord knows where,
Whilst in the Grass a Serpent lies
Obscur'd by Shams from common Eyes,
Design'd to overturn the State,
And make the vile Projector Great.
If therefore you'd be free from Wrongs,
Ne'er listen to the Rabbles Tongues;
For all Distractions and Confusions,
Domestick Wars and Revolutions,
Are elbow'd on by those vile Wretches,
Whom Heav'n abhors, and Hell bewitches.
Shouting and Roaring in the Streets,
Like drunken Sots, or Bedlamites,
The noisy Rake-hells march'd along,
Surrounded by a gazing Throng,
Who, like true Protestants, bestow'd
Their Pence according to the Mode,
That all the Standers by might see
How much they hated Popery.
Thought I, as these an Idol frame
Of Rags, and fix the frightful Name
Of Pope thereon, that all who see
The Bugbear's sad Catastrophe,
May triumph, in Despite to Rome,
O'er Puppit Grey-beard's Martyrdom.
Just so the Saints ill Names devise
For those who do their Cant despise,
And make them next their Sacrifice.
Like drunken Sots, or Bedlamites,
The noisy Rake-hells march'd along,
Surrounded by a gazing Throng,
Who, like true Protestants, bestow'd
Their Pence according to the Mode,
That all the Standers by might see
How much they hated Popery.
28
Of Rags, and fix the frightful Name
Of Pope thereon, that all who see
The Bugbear's sad Catastrophe,
May triumph, in Despite to Rome,
O'er Puppit Grey-beard's Martyrdom.
Just so the Saints ill Names devise
For those who do their Cant despise,
And make them next their Sacrifice.
| Hudibras Redivivus | |