And weave fine cobwebs, fit for scul!
That's empty when the moon is full:
Such as take lodgings in a head
That's to be let unfurnished.
He could raise scruples dark and nice,
And after solve 'em in a trice:
As if divinity had catch'd
The itch, on purpose to be scratc'd ;
For his religion, it was fit
To match his learning and his wit:
'Twas Presbyterian true blue :
For he was of that stubborn crew
Of errant saints, whom all men grant
To be the true church militant:
Such as do build their faith upon
The holy text of pike and gun;
Decide all controversies by
Infallible artillery;
And prove their doctrine orthodox
By apostolic blows and knocks;
Call fire, and sword, and desolation,
A godly thorough reformation,
Which always must be carry'd on,
And still be doing, never done
As if religion were intended
For nothing else but to be mended.
A sect whose chief devotion lies
In odd perverse antipathies:
In falling out with that or this,
And finding somewhat still amiss :
More peevish, cross, and splenetic,
Than dog distract, or monkey sick;
That with more care keep holiday
The 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.
Thus was he gifted and accouter'd,
We mean on the inside, not the outward.
That next of all we shall discuss :
Then listen, Sirs, it follows thus:
His tawny beard was th' equal grace
Both of his wisdom and his face;
In cut and die 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 denounce
The fall of sceptres and of crowns:
With grisly type did represent
Declining age of government;
And tell with hieroglyphic spade,
Its own grave and the state's were made.
Like Samson's heart-breakers, it gre
In time to make a nation rue;
Though it contributed its own fall,
To wait upon the public downfal.
It was monastic, and did grow
In holy orders by strict vow;
Of rule as sullen and severe,
As that of rapid Cordeliere:
'Twas bound to suffer persecution,
And martyrdom with resolution,
T'oppose itself against the hate
And vengeance of th' incensed state:
In whose defiance it was worn,
Still ready to be rent and torn,
With red-hot irons to be tortur'd,
Revil'd, and spit upon, and martyr'd;
Maugre all which, 'twas to stand fast,
As long as monarchy should 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 sisters
Did 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 mow
Both down together at a blow.
His back, or rather burden, show'd,
As if it stoop'd with its own load.
For as Æneas bore his sire
Upon his shoulders through the fire;
Our Knight did bear no less a pack
Of 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 bore
A paunch of the same bulk before;
Which still he had a special care
To keep well cramm'd with thrifty fare;
As white-pot, butter-milk, and curds,
Such as the country-house affords;
With other victual, which anon
We further 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 though 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.
Through they were lin'd with many a piece
Of ammunition bread and cheese,
And fat black-puddings, proper food
For warriors that delight in blood:
For, as we said, he always chose
To carry vittle in his hose,
That often tempted rats and mice
The ammunition to surprise:
And when he put a hand but in
The 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.
His puissant sword unto his side,
Near his undaunted heart was ty'd;
With basket-hilt, that would 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 into itself, for lack
Of some body to hew and hack.
The peaceful scabbard where it dwelt,
The rancour of its edge had felt;
For of the lower end two handful
It had devoured, '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 bolder
Than Serjeant Bum invading shoulder.
Oft had it ta'en possession,
And pris'ners too, or made them run.
This sword a dagger had his page,
That was but little for his age;
And therefore waited on him so,
As dwarfs upon knights-errants 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, though it were
To bait a mouse trap, 'twould not care.
"Twould make clean shoes, and in the earth
Set 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 more
Have lately done on the same score.
In th' holsters at his saddle-bow
Two aged pistols he did stow,
Among the surplus of such meat
As in his hose he could not get.
These would inveigle rats with th' scent,
To forage when the cocks were bent;
And sometimes catch them with a snap,
As cleverly as th' ablest trap.
They were upon hard duty still,
And ev'ry night stood centinel,
To guard the magazine i' th' hose,
From two-legg'd and from four-legg'd foes.
Thus clad and fortify'd, Sir Knight,
From peaceful home set forth to fight.
But first with nimble active force,
He got on th' outside of his horse;
For having but one stirrup ty'd,
T' his saddle on the further side,
It was so short, h' had much ado,
To reach it with his desperate 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 over,
With 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 behove us to say something,
Of that which bore our valiant bumpkin;
The beast was sturdy, large, and tall,
With mouth of meal, and eyes of wall;
I would say eye: for h' had but one,
As most agree, though some say none.
He was well stay'd, and in his gait,
Preserv'd a grave, majestic state.
At spur or switch no more he skipp'd,
Or mended pace, than Spaniard whipp'd:
And yet so fiery, he would bound,
As if he griev'd to touch the ground;
That Cæsar's horse, who, as fame goes,
Had 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,
Would often do to set him down.
We shall not need to say what lack
Of 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'd
Like furrows he himself had plow'd:
For underneath the skirt of pannel,
"Twixt every two there was a channel.
His draggling tail hung in the dirt
Which on his rider he should flirt,
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 could he stir
To active trot one side of's horse,
The other would not hang an arse.
A Squire he had, whose name was Ralph, That in th' adventure went his half.
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