Part I: Canto I

Sir Hudibras his passing worth,The manner how he sallied forth;His arms and equipage are shown;His horse's virtues, and his own.Th' adventure of the bear and fiddleIs sung, but breaks off in the middle.

When civil dudgeon first grew high,And men fell out they knew not why?When hard words, jealousies, and fears,Set folks together by the ears,And made them fight, like mad or drunk,For Dame Religion, as for punk;Whose honesty they all durst swear for,Though not a man of them knew wherefore:When Gospel-Trumpeter, surroundedWith long-ear'd rout, to battle sounded,And pulpit, drum ecclesiastick,Was beat with fist, instead of a stick;Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling,And out he rode a colonelling.A wight he was, whose very sight wou'dEntitle him Mirror of Knighthood;That never bent his stubborn kneeTo any thing but Chivalry;Nor put up blow, but that which laidRight worshipful on shoulder-blade;Chief of domestic knights and errant,Either for cartel or for warrant;Great on the bench, great in the saddle,That could as well bind o'er, as swaddle;Mighty he was at both of these,And styl'd of war, as well as peace.(So some rats, of amphibious nature,Are either for the land or water).But here our authors make a doubtWhether he were more wise, or stout:Some hold the one, and some the other;But howsoe'er they make a pother,The diff'rence was so small, his brainOutweigh'd his rage but half a grain;Which made some take him for a toolThat knaves do work with, call'd a fool,And offer to lay wagers thatAs MONTAIGNE, playing with his cat,Complains she thought him but an ass,Much more she wou'd Sir HUDIBRAS;(For that's the name our valiant knightTo all his challenges did write).But they're mistaken very much,'Tis plain enough he was no such;We grant, although he had much wit,H' was very shy of using it;As being loth to wear it out,And therefore bore it not about,Unless on holy-days, or so,As men their best apparel do.Beside, 'tis known he could speak GREEKAs naturally as pigs squeek;That LATIN was no more difficile,Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle:Being rich in both, he never scantedHis bounty unto such as wanted;But much of either would affordTo many, that had not one word.For Hebrew roots, although they're foundTo flourish most in barren ground,He had such plenty, as suffic'dTo make some think him circumcis'd;And truly so, he was, perhaps,Not as a proselyte, but for claps.

He was in LOGIC a great critic,Profoundly skill'd in analytic;He could distinguish, and divideA hair 'twixt south, and south-west side:On either which he would dispute,Confute, change hands, and still confute,He'd undertake to prove, by forceOf argument, a man's no horse;He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl,And that a lord may be an owl,A calf an alderman, a goose a justice,And rooks Committee-men and Trustees.He'd run in debt by disputation,And pay with ratiocination.All this by syllogism, trueIn mood and figure, he would do.For RHETORIC, he could not opeHis mouth, but out there flew a trope;And when he happen'd to break offI' th' middle of his speech, or cough,H' had hard words,ready to show why,And tell what rules he did it by;Else, when with greatest art he spoke,You'd think he talk'd like other folk,For all a rhetorician's rulesTeach nothing but to name his tools.His ordinary rate of speechIn loftiness of sound was rich;A Babylonish dialect,Which learned pedants much affect.It was a parti-colour'd dressOf patch'd and pie-bald languages;'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin,Like fustian heretofore on satin;It had an odd promiscuous tone,As if h' had talk'd three parts in one;Which made some think, when he did gabble,Th' had heard three labourers of Babel;Or CERBERUS himself pronounceA leash of languages at once.This he as volubly would ventAs if his stock would ne'er be spent:And truly, to support that charge,He had supplies as vast and large;For he cou'd coin, or counterfeitNew words, with little or no wit:Words so debas'd and hard, no stoneWas hard enough to touch them on;And when with hasty noise he spoke 'em,The ignorant for current took 'em;That had the orator, who onceDid fill his mouth with pebble stonesWhen he harangu'd, but known his phraseHe would have us'd no other ways.In MATHEMATICKS he was greaterThan TYCHO BRAHE, or ERRA PATER:For he, by geometric scale,Could take the size of pots of ale;Resolve, by sines and tangents straight,If bread or butter wanted weight,And wisely tell what hour o' th' dayThe clock does strike by algebra.Beside, he was a shrewd PHILOSOPHER,And had read ev'ry text and gloss over;Whate'er the crabbed'st author hath,He understood b' implicit faith:Whatever sceptic could inquire for,For ev'ry why he had a wherefore;Knew more than forty of them do,As far as words and terms cou'd go.All which he understood by rote,And, as occasion serv'd, would quote;No matter whether right or wrong,They might be either said or sung.His notions fitted things so well,That which was which he could not tell;But oftentimes mistook th' oneFor th' other, as great clerks have done.He could reduce all things to acts,And knew their natures by abstracts;Where entity and quiddity,The ghosts of defunct bodies fly;Where truth in person does appear,Like words congeal'd in northern air.He knew what's what, and that's as highAs metaphysic wit can fly;In school-divinity as ableAs he that hight, Irrefragable;A second THOMAS, or, at once,To name them all, another DUNCE:Profound in all the NominalAnd Real ways, beyond them all:For he a rope of sand cou'd twistAs tough as learned SORBONIST;And weave fine cobwebs, fit for skullThat's empty when the moon is full;Such as take lodgings in a headThat's to be let unfurnished.He could raise scruples dark and nice,And after solve 'em in a trice;As if Divinity had catch'dThe itch, on purpose to be scratch'd;Or, like a mountebank, did woundAnd stab herself with doubts profound,Only to show with how small painThe sores of Faith are cur'd again;Although by woeful proof we find,They always leave a scar behind.He knew the seat of Paradise,Could tell in what degree it lies;And, as he was dispos'd, could prove it,Below the moon, or else above it.What Adam dreamt of, when his brideCame from her closet in his side:Whether the devil tempted herBy a High Dutch interpreter;If either of them had a navel:Who first made music malleable:Whether the serpent, at the fall,Had cloven feet, or none at all.All this, without a gloss, or comment,He could unriddle in a moment,In proper terms, such as men smatterWhen they throw out, and miss the matter.

For his Religion, it was fitTo match his learning and his wit;'Twas Presbyterian true blue;For he was of that stubborn crewOf errant saints, whom all men grantTo be the true Church Militant;Such as do build their faith uponThe holy text of pike and gun;Decide all controversies byInfallible artillery;And prove their doctrine orthodoxBy apostolic blows and knocks;Call fire and sword and desolation,A godly thorough reformation,Which always must be carried on,And still be doing, never done;As if religion were intendedFor nothing else but to be mended.A sect, whose chief devotion liesIn odd perverse antipathies;In falling out with that or this,And finding somewhat still amiss;More peevish, cross, and splenetick,Than dog distract, or monkey sick.That with more care keep holy-dayThe wrong, than others the right way;Compound for sins they are inclin'd to,By damning those they have no mind to:Still so perverse and opposite,As if they worshipp'd God for spite.The self-same thing they will abhorOne way, and long another for.Free-will they one way disavow,Another, nothing else allow:All piety consists thereinIn them, in other men all sin:Rather than fail, they will defyThat which they love most tenderly;Quarrel with minc'd-pies, and disparageTheir best and dearest friend, plum-porridge;Fat pig and goose itself oppose,And blaspheme custard through the nose.Th' apostles of this fierce religion,Like MAHOMET'S, were ass and pidgeon,To whom our knight, by fast instinctOf wit and temper, was so linkt,As if hypocrisy and nonsenseHad got th' advowson of his conscience.

Thus was he gifted and accouter'd;We mean on th' inside, not the outward;That next of all we shall discuss:Then listen, Sirs, it follows thusHis tawny beard was th' equal graceBoth of his wisdom and his face;In cut and dye so like a tile,A sudden view it would beguile:The upper part thereof was whey;The nether, orange mix'd with grey.This hairy meteor did denounceThe fall of scepters and of crowns;With grisly type did representDeclining age of government;And tell with hieroglyphick spade,Its own grave and the state's were made.Like SAMPSON'S heart-breakers, it grewIn time to make a nation rue;Tho' it contributed its own fall,To wait upon the publick downfal,It was monastick, and did growIn holy orders by strict vow;Of rule as sullen and severeAs that of rigid Cordeliere.'Twas bound to suffer persecutionAnd martyrdom with resolution;T' oppose itself against the hateAnd vengeance of th' incensed state;In whose defiance it was worn,Still ready to be pull'd and torn;With red-hot irons to be tortur'd;Revil'd, and spit upon, and martyr'd.Maugre all which, 'twas to stand fastAs long as monarchy shou'd last;But when the state should hap to reel,'Twas to submit to fatal steel,And fall, as it was consecrate,A sacrifice to fall of state;Whose thread of life the fatal sistersDid twist together with its whiskers,And twine so close, that time should never,In life or death, their fortunes sever;But with his rusty sickle mowBoth down together at a blow.So learned TALIACOTIUS fromThe brawny part of porter's bumCut supplemental noses, whichWou'd last as long as parent breech;But when the date of NOCK was out,Off drop'd the sympathetic snout.

His back, or rather burthen, show'd,As if it stoop'd with its own load:For as AENEAS bore his sireUpon his shoulders thro' the fire,Our Knight did bear no less a packOf his own buttocks on his back;Which now had almost got the upper-Hand of his head, for want of crupper.To poise this equally, he boreA paunch of the same bulk before;Which still he had a special careTo keep well-cramm'd with thrifty fare;As white-pot, butter-milk, and curds,Such as a country-house affords;With other vittle, which anonWe farther shall dilate upon,When of his hose we come to treat,The cupboard where he kept his meat.

His doublet was of sturdy buff,And tho' not sword, yet cudgel-proof;Whereby 'twas fitter for his use,Who fear'd no blows, but such as bruise.

His breeches were of rugged woollen,And had been at the siege of Bullen;To old King HARRY so well known,Some writers held they were his own.Thro' they were lin'd with many a pieceOf ammunition bread and cheese,And fat black-puddings, proper foodFor warriors that delight in blood.For, as we said, he always choseTo carry vittle in his hose,That often tempted rats and miceThe ammunition to surprise:And when he put a hand but inThe one or t' other magazine,They stoutly in defence on't stood,And from the wounded foe drew blood;And 'till th' were storm'd and beaten out,Ne'er left the fortify'd redoubt.And tho' Knights Errant, as some think,Of old did neither eat nor drink,Because, when thorough desarts vast,And regions desolate, they past,Where belly-timber above ground,Or under, was not to be found,Unless they graz'd, there's not one wordOf their provision on record;Which made some confidently write,They had no stomachs, but to fight.'Tis false: for ARTHUR wore in hallRound table like a farthingal,On which with shirt pull'd out behind,And eke before, his good Knights din'd.Though 'twas no table, some suppose,But a huge pair of round trunk hose;In which he carry'd as much meatAs he and all the Knights cou'd eat,When, laying by their swords and truncheons,They took their breakfasts, or their nuncheons.But let that pass at present, lestWe should forget where we digrest,As learned authors use, to whomWe leave it, and to th' purpose come,

His puissant sword unto his side,Near his undaunted heart, was ty'd;With basket-hilt, that wou'd hold broth,And serve for fight and dinner both.In it he melted lead for bullets,To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets,To whom he bore so fell a grutch,He ne'er gave quarter t' any such.The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty,For want of fighting, was grown rusty,And ate unto itself, for lackOf somebody to hew and hack.The peaceful scabbard where it dweltThe rancour of its edge had felt;For of the lower end two handfulIt had devour'd, 'twas so manful;And so much scorn'd to lurk in case,As if it durst not shew its face.In many desperate attempts,Of warrants, exigents, contempts,It had appear'd with courage bolderThan Serjeant BUM invading shoulder.Oft had it ta'en possession,And pris'ners too, or made them run.

This sword a dagger had t' his page,That was but little for his age;And therefore waited on him so,As dwarfs upon Knights Errant do.It was a serviceable dudgeon,Either for fighting or for drudging.When it had stabb'd, or broke a head,It would scrape trenchers, or chip bread;Toast cheese or bacon; tho' it wereTo bait a mouse-trap, 'twould not care.'Twould make clean shoes; and in the earthSet leeks and onions, and so forth.It had been 'prentice to a brewer,Where this and more it did endure;But left the trade, as many moreHave lately done on the same score.

In th' holsters, at his saddle-bow,Two aged pistols he did stow,Among the surplus of such meatAs in his hose he cou'd not get.These wou'd inveigle rats with th' scent,To forage when the cocks were bent;And sometimes catch 'em with a snapAs cleverly as th' ablest trap.They were upon hard duty still,And ev'ry night stood centinel,To guard the magazine i' th' hoseFrom two-legg'd and from four-legg'd foes.

Thus clad and fortify'd, Sir KnightFrom peaceful home set forth to fight.But first with nimble, active forceHe got on th' outside of his horse;For having but one stirrup ty'dT' his saddle, on the further side,It was so short, h' had much adoTo reach it with his desp'rate toe:But, after many strains and heaves,He got up to the saddle-eaves,From whence he vaulted into th' seat,With so much vigour, strength and heat,That he had almost tumbled overWith his own weight, but did recover,By laying hold on tail and main,Which oft he us'd instead of rein.

But now we talk of mounting steed,Before we further do proceed,It doth behoves us to say somethingOf that which bore our valiant bumkin.The beast was sturdy, large, and tall,With mouth of meal, and eyes of wall.I wou'd say eye; for h' had but one,As most agree; tho' some say none.He was well stay'd; and in his gaitPreserv'd a grave, majestick state.At spur or switch no more he skipt,Or mended pace, than Spaniard whipt;And yet so fiery, he wou'd boundAs if he griev'd to touch the ground:That CAESAR's horse, who, as fame goesHad corns upon his feet and toes,Was not by half so tender hooft,Nor trod upon the ground so soft.And as that beast would kneel and stoop(Some write) to take his rider up,So HUDIBRAS his ('tis well known)Wou'd often do to set him down.We shall not need to say what lackOf leather was upon his back;For that was hidden under pad,And breech of Knight, gall'd full as bad.His strutting ribs on both sides show'dLike furrows he himself had plow'd;For underneath the skirt of pannel,'Twixt ev'ry two there was a channelHis draggling tail hung in the dirt,Which on his rider he wou'd flurt,Still as his tender side he prick'd,With arm'd heel, or with unarm'd kick'd:For HUDIBRAS wore but one spur;As wisely knowing, cou'd he stirTo active trot one side of's horse,The other wou'd not hang an arse.

A squire he had, whose name was RALPH,That in th' adventure went his half:Though writers, for more stately tone,Do call him RALPHO; 'tis all one;And when we can with metre safe,We'll call him so; if not, plain RALPH:(For rhyme the rudder is of verses,With which like ships they steer their courses.)An equal stock of wit and valourHe had laid in; by birth a taylor.The mighty Tyrian Queen, that gain'dWith subtle shreds a tract of land,Did leave it with a castle fairTo his great ancestor, her heir.From him descended cross-legg'd Knights,Fam'd for their faith, and warlike fightsAgainst the bloody cannibal,Whom they destroy'd both great and small.This sturdy Squire, he had, as wellAs the bold Trojan Knight, seen Hell;Not with a counterfeited passOf golden bough, but true gold-lace.His knowledge was not far behindThe Knight's, but of another kind,And he another way came by 't:Some call it GIFTS, and some NEW-LIGHT;A liberal art, that costs no painsOf study, industry, or brains.His wit was sent him for a token,But in the carriage crack'd and broken.Like commendation nine-pence crook'd,With -- To and from my love -- it look'd.He ne'er consider'd it, as lothTo look a gift-horse in the mouth;And very wisely wou'd lay forthNo more upon it than 'twas worth.But as he got it freely, soHe spent it frank and freely too.For Saints themselves will sometimes beOf gifts, that cost them nothing, free.By means of this, with hem and cough,Prolongers to enlighten'd stuff,He cou'd deep mysteries unriddleAs easily as thread a needle.For as of vagabonds we say,That they are ne'er beside their way;Whate'er men speak by this New Light,Still they are sure to be i' th' right.'Tis a dark-lanthorn of the Spirit,Which none see by but those that bear it:A light that falls down from on high,For spiritual trades to cozen byAn Ignis Fatuus, that bewitchesAnd leads men into pools and ditches,To make them dip themselves, and soundFor Christendom in dirty pondTo dive like wild-fowl for salvation,And fish to catch regeneration.This light inspires and plays uponThe nose of Saint like bag-pipe drone,And speaks through hollow empty soul,As through a trunk, or whisp'ring hole,Such language as no mortal earBut spirit'al eaves-droppers can hear:So PHOEBUS, or some friendly muse,Into small poets song infuse,Which they at second-hand rehearse,Thro' reed or bag-pipe, verse for verse.

Thus RALPH became infallibleAs three or four-legg'd oracle,The ancient cup, or modern chair;Spoke truth point-blank, tho' unaware.

For MYSTICK LEARNING, wond'rous ableIn magick Talisman and Cabal,Whose primitive tradition reachesAs far as ADAM'S first green breeches:Deep-sighted in intelligences,Ideas, atoms, influences;And much of Terra Incognita,Th' intelligible world, cou'd say:A deep OCCULT PHILOSOPHER,As learn'd as the wild Irish are,Or Sir AGRIPPA; for profoundAnd solid lying much renown'd.He ANTHROPOSOPHUS, and FLOUD,And JACOB BEHMEN understood:Knew many an amulet and charm,That wou'd do neither good nor harm:In ROSY-CRUCIAN lore as learned,As he that Vere adeptus earned.He understood the speech of birdsAs well as they themselves do words;Cou'd tell what subtlest parrots mean,That speak, and think contrary clean:What Member 'tis of whom they talk,When they cry, Rope, and walk, knave, walk.He'd extract numbers out of matter,And keep them in a glass, like water;Of sov'reign pow'r to make men wise;For drop'd in blear thick-sighted eyes,They'd make them see in darkest nightLike owls, tho' purblind in the light.By help of these (as he profess'd)He had First Matter seen undress'd:He took her naked all alone,Before one rag of form was on.The Chaos too he had descry'd,And seen quite thro', or else he ly'd:Not that of paste-board which men shewFor groats, at fair of Barthol'mew;But its great grandsire, first o' the name,Whence that and REFORMATION came;Both cousin-germans, and right ableT' inveigle and draw in the rabble.But Reformation was, some say,O' th' younger house to Puppet-play.He cou'd foretel whats'ever wasBy consequence to come to pass;As death of great men, alterations,Diseases, battles, inundations.All this, without th' eclipse o' th' sun,Or dreadful comet, he hath done,By inward light; away as good,And easy to be understood;But with more lucky hit than thoseThat use to make the stars depose,Like Knights o' th' post, and falsely chargeUpon themselves what others forge:As if they were consenting toAll mischiefs in the world men do:Or, like the Devil, did tempt and sway 'emTo rogueries, and then betray 'em.They'll search a planet's house, to knowWho broke and robb'd a house below:Examine VENUS, and the MOON,Who stole a thimble or a spoon;And tho' they nothing will confess,Yet by their very looks can guess,And tell what guilty aspect bodes,Who stole, and who receiv'd the goods.They'll question MARS, and, by his look,Detect who 'twas that nimm'd a cloke:Make MERCURY confess, and 'peachThose thieves which he himself did teach.They'll find, i' th' physiognomiesO' th' planets, all men's destinies.;Like him that took the doctor's bill,And swallow'd it instead o' th' pillCast the nativity o' th' question,And from positions to be guess'd on,As sure as it' they knew the momentOf natives birth, tell what will come on't.They'll feel the pulses of the stars,To find out agues, coughs, catarrhs;And tell what crisis does divineThe rot in sheep, or mange in swineIn men, what gives or cures the itch;What makes them cuckolds, poor or rich;What gains or loses, hangs or saves;What makes men great, what fools or knaves,But not what wise; for only of thoseThe stars (they say) cannot dispose,No more than can the Astrologians.There they say right, and like true Trojans.This RALPHO knew, and therefore tookThe other course, of which we spoke.

Thus was the accomplish'd Squire endu'dWith gifts and knowledge, per'lous shrew'd.Never did trusty Squire with Knight,Or Knight with Squire, e'er jump more right.Their arms and equipage did fit,As well as virtues, parts, and wit.Their valours too were of a rate;And out they sally'd at the gate.Few miles on horseback had they jogged,But Fortune unto them turn'd dogged;For they a sad adventure met,Of which anon we mean to treat;But ere we venture to unfoldAtchievements so resolv'd and bold,We shou'd as learned poets use,Invoke th' assistance of some muse:However, criticks count it sillierThan jugglers talking to familiar.We think 'tis no great matter whichThey're all alike; yet we shall pitchOn one that fits our purpose mostWhom therefore thus do we accost:

Thou that with ale, or viler liquors,Did'st inspire WITHERS, PRYN, and VICKARS,And force them, tho' it was in spiteOf nature and their stars, to write;Who, as we find in sullen writs,And cross-grain'd works of modern wits,With vanity, opinion, want,The wonder of the ignorant,The praises of the author, penn'dB' himself, or wit-insuring friend;The itch of picture in the front,With bays and wicked rhyme upon't;All that is left o' th' forked hill,To make men scribble without skill;Canst make a poet spite of fate,And teach all people to translate,Tho' out of languages in whichThey understand no part of speech;Assist me but this once, I 'mplore,And I shall trouble thee no more.

In western clime there is a town,To those that dwell therein well known;Therefore there needs no more be said here,We unto them refer our reader;For brevity is very good,When w' are, or are not, understood.To this town people did repair,On days of market, or of fair,And, to crack'd fiddle, and hoarse tabor,In merriment did drudge and labor.But now a sport more formidableHad rak'd together village rabble:'Twas an old way of recreating,Which learned butchers call bear-baiting:A bold advent'rous exercise,With ancient heroes in high prize:For authors do affirm it cameFrom Isthmian or Nemean game:Others derive it from the bearThat's fix'd in northern hemisphere,And round about the pole does makeA circle like a bear at stake,That at the chain's end wheels about,And overturns the rabble-rout.For after solemn proclamation,In the bear's name, (as is the fashion,According to the law of arms,To keep men from inglorious harms,)That none presume to come so nearAs forty foot of stake of bear,If any yet be so fool-hardy,T' expose themselves to vain jeopardy,If they come wounded off, and lame,No honour's got by such a maim;Altho' the bear gain much, b'ing boundIn honour to make good his ground,When he's engag'd, and takes no notice,If any press upon him, who 'tis;But let's them know, at their own cost,That he intends to keep his post.This to prevent, and other harms,Which always wait on feats of arms,(For in the hurry of a fray'Tis hard to keep out of harm's way,)Thither the Knight his course did steer,To keep the peace 'twixt dog and bear;As he believ'd he was bound to doIn conscience, and commission too;And therefore thus bespoke the Squire.

We that are wisely mounted higherThan constables in curule wit,When on tribunal bench we sit,Like speculators shou'd foresee,From Pharos of authority,Portended mischiefs farther thenLow Proletarian tything-men:And therefore being inform'd by bruit,That dog and bear are to dispute;For so of late men fighting name,Because they often prove the same;(For where the first does hap to be,The last does coincidere;)Quantum in nobis, have thought good,To save th' expence of Christian blood,And try if we, by mediationOf treaty and accommodation,Can end the quarrel and composeThe bloody duel without blows.Are not our liberties, our lives,The laws, religion and our wives,Enough at once to lie at stakeFor Cov'nant and the Cause's sake?But in that quarrel dogs and bears,As well as we must venture theirsThis feud, by Jesuits invented,By evil counsel is fomented:There is a MACHIAVILIAN plot,(Tho' ev'ry Nare olfact is not,)A deep design in't, to divideThe well-affected that confide,By setting brother against brother,To claw and curry one another.Have we not enemies plus satis,That Cane & Angue pejus hate us?And shall we turn our fangs and clawsUpon our own selves, without cause?That some occult design doth lieIn bloody cynarctomachy,Is plain enough to him that knowsHow Saints lead brothers by the nose.I wish myself a pseudo-prophet,But sure some mischief will come of it;Unless by providential wit,Or force, we averruncate it.For what design, what interest,Can beast have to encounter beast?They fight for no espoused cause,Frail privilege, fundamental laws,Not for a thorough reformation,Nor covenant, nor protestation,Nor liberty of consciences,Nor Lords and Commons ordinances;Nor for the church, nor for church-lands,To get them in their own no hands;Nor evil counsellors to bringTo justice that seduce the King;Nor for the worship of us men,Though we have done as much for them.Th' AEgyptians worshipp'd dogs, and forTheir faith made internecine war.Others ador'd a rat, and someFor that church suffer'd martyrdom.The Indians fought for the truthOf th' elephant and monkey's tooth,And many, to defend that faith,Fought it out mordicus to death.But no beast ever was so slight,For man, as for his God, to fight.They have more wit, alas! and knowThemselves and us better than so.But we, who only do infuseThe rage in them like Boute-feus;'Tis our example that instilsIn them th' infection of our ills.For, as some late philosophers.Have well observ'd, beasts, that converseWith man, take after him, as hogsGet pigs all the year, and bitches dogs.Just so, by our example, cattleLearn to give one another battle.We read, in NERO's time, the heathen,When they destroy'd the Christian brethren,Did sew them in the skins of bears,And then set dogs about their ears:From thence, no doubt, th' invention cameOf this lewd antichristian game.

To this, quoth RALPHO, VerilyThe point seems very plain to me.It is an antichristian game,Unlawful both in thing and name.First, for the name: the word, bear-baitingIs carnal, and of man's creating:For certainly there's no such wordIn all the scripture on record;Therefore unlawful, and a sin;And so is (secondly) the thing.A vile assembly 'tis, that canNo more be prov'd by scripture thanProvincial, classic, national;Mere human-creature cobwebs all.Thirdly, it is idolatrous;For when men run a whoring thusWith their inventions, whatsoe'erThe thing be, whether dog or bear,It is idolatrous and pagan,No less than worshipping of DAGON.

Quoth HUDIBRAS, I smell a rat;RALPHO, thou dost prevaricate:For though the thesis which thou lay'stBe true ad amussim, as thou say'st;(For that bear-baiting should appearJure divino lawfullerThan synods are, thou dost deny,Totidem verbis; so do I;)Yet there's a fallacy in this;For if by sly HOMAEOSIS,Tussis pro crepitu, an artUnder a cough to slur a f--tThou wou'dst sophistically imply,Both are unlawful, I deny.

And I (quoth RALPHO) do not doubtBut bear-baiting may be made out,In gospel-times, as lawful as isProvincial or parochial classis;And that both are so near of kin,And like in all, as well as sin,That put them in a bag, and shake 'em,Yourself o' th' sudden would mistake 'em,And not know which is which, unlessYou measure by their wickedness:For 'tis not hard t'imagine whetherO' th' two is worst; tho' I name neither.

Quoth HUDIBRAS, Thou offer'st much,But art not able to keep touch.Mira de lente, as 'tis i' th' adage,Id est, to make a leek a cabbage;Thou'lt be at best but such a bull,Or shear-swine, all cry, and no wool;For what can synods have at allWith bear that's analogical?Or what relation has debatingOf church-affairs with bear-baiting?A just comparison still isOf things ejusdem generis;And then what genus rightly dothInclude and comprehend them both?If animal both of us mayAs justly pass for bears as they;For we are animals no less,Altho' of different specieses.But, RALPHO, this is not fit placeNor time to argue out the case:For now the field is not far off,Where we must give the world a proofOf deeds, not words, and such as suitAnother manner of dispute;A controversy that affordsActions for arguments, not words;Which we must manage at a rateOf prowess and conduct adequateTo what our place and fame doth promise,And all the godly expect from us,Nor shall they be deceiv'd, unlessWe're slurr'd and outed by success;Success, the mark no mortal wit,Or surest hand can always hit:For whatsoe'er we perpetrate,We do but row, we're steer'd by Fate,Which in success oft disinherits,For spurious causes, noblest merits.Great actions are not always true sonsOf great and mighty resolutions;Nor do th' boldest attempts bring forthEvents still equal to their worth;But sometimes fail, and, in their stead,Fortune and cowardice succeed.Yet we have no great cause to doubt;Our actions still have borne us out;Which tho' they're known to be so ample,We need not copy from example.We're not the only persons durstAttempt this province, nor the first.In northern clime a val'rous KnightDid whilom kill his bear in fght,And wound a fiddler; we have bothOf these the objects of our wroth,And equal fame and glory fromTh' attempt of victory to come.'Tis sung, there is a valiant MamalukeIn foreign land, yclep'd --To whom we have been oft compar'dFor person, parts; address, and beard;Both equally reputed stout,And in the same cause both have fought:He oft in such attempts as theseCame off with glory and success;Nor will we fail in th' execution,For want of equal resolution.Honour is like a widow, wonWith brisk attempt and putting on;With ent'ring manfully, and urging;Not slow approaches, like a virgin.

'Tis said, as yerst the Phrygian Knight,So ours with rusty steel did smiteHis Trojan horse, and just as muchHe mended pace upon the touch;But from his empty stomach groan'dJust as that hollow beast did sound,And angry answer'd from behind,With brandish'd tail and blast of wind.So have I seen, with armed heel,A wight bestride a Common-weal;While still the more he kick'd and spurr'd,The less the sullen jade has stirr'd.