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But must reflect, alas ! alas !
All human glory fades like grass,
And that the strongest martial feats
Of errant knights are all but cheats !
Witness our Knight, who sure has done
More valiant actions, ten to one,
Than of More-Hall the mighty More,
Or him that made the Dragon roar ;
Has knock'd more inen and women down
Than Bevis of Southampton town,
Or than our modern heroes can,
To take them singly man by man.
No, sure, the grilly King of terror
Has been to blame, and in an error,
To issue his dead-warrant forth
To seize a knight of so much worth,
Just in the nick of all his glory ;
I tremble when I tell the story.
Oh! help me, help me, some kind Muse,
This surly tyrant to abuse,
Who, in his rage, has been so cruel
To rob the world of such a jewel !
A knight more learned, stout, and good,
Sure ne'er was made of flesh and blood :
All his perfections were fo rare,
The wit of man could not declare
Which single virtue, or which grace,
Above the rest had any place,
Or which he was most famous for,
The camp, the pulpit, or the bar;
Of each he had an equal fpice,
And was in all so very nice,
That, to speak truth, th' account it lost,
In which he did excel the most.
When he forsook the peaceful dwelling,
And out he went a colonelling,
Strange hopes and fears poffeft the nation,
How he could manage that vocation,
Until he shew'd it to a wonder,
How nobly he could fight and plunder.
At preaching, too, he was a dab,
More exquisite by far than Squab;
He could fetch uses, and infer,
Without the help of metaphor,
From any Scripture text, howe'er
Remote it from the purpose were ;
And with his fift, instead of a stick,
Beat pulpit, drum ecclesiastick,
Till he made all the audience weep,
Excepting those that fell asleep.
Then at the bar he was right able,
And could bind o'er as well as swaddle;
And famous, too, at petty sessions,
'Gainst thieves and whores, for long digressions,
He could most learnedly determine
To Bridewell, or the stocks, the vermin.
For his address and way of living,
All his behaviour, was so moving,
That, let the dame be ne'er fo chalte,
As people say, below the waist,
If Hudibras but once come at her,
He id quickly make her chaps to water :
Then for his equipage and shape,
On vestals they 'd commit a rape ;
Which often, as the story says,
Have made the ladies weep both ways.
Ill has he read, that never heard
How he with Widow Tomson far'd,
And what hard conflict was between
Our Knight and that insulting quean.
Sure captive knight ne'er took more pains,
For rhymes for his melodious strains,
Nor beat his brains, or made more faces,
To get into a jilt's good graces,
Than did Sir Hudibras to get
Into this subtle gypsy's net;
Who, after all her high pretence
To modesty and innocence,
Was thought by most to be a woman
That to all other knights was common.,
Hard was his fate in this, I own,
Nor will I for the trapes atone ;
Indeed to guess I am not able,
What made her thus inexorable,
Unless she did not like his wit,
Or, what is worse, his perquisite.
Howe'er it was, the wound the gave
The Knight, he carry'd to his grave :
Vile harlot ! to destroy a knight,
That could both plead, and pray, and fight.
A a 2
Oh! cruel, base, inhuman drab,
To give him such a mortal (tab,
That made him pine away and moulder,
As though that he had been no-foldier :
Could'st thou find no one else to kill,
Thou inftrument of death and hell!
But Hudibras, who stood the Bears
So oft against the Cavaliers,
And in the very heat of war
Took stout Crowdero prisoner ;
And did such wonders all along,
That far exceed both pen and tongue ?
If he had been in battle Nain,
We 'ad had less reason to complain ;
But to be murder'd by a whore,
Was ever knight so serv'd before ?
But, since he 's gone, all we can say,
He chanc'd to die a lingering way ;
If he had liv'd a longer date,
He might, perhaps, have met a fate
More violent, and fitting for
A knight fo fam'd in Civil war.
all—from love and danger
He 's now (o happy Knight!) a stranger;
And, if a Muse can aught foretell,
His fame shall fill a chronicle,
And he in after-ages be
Of errant knights th' epitomo,
UNDER this tone refts Hudibras,
A Knight as errant as e'er was ;
The controversy only lies,
Whether he was more stout than wife;
Nor can we here pretend to say,
Whether he best could fight or pray;
So, till those questions are decided,
His virtues must rest undivided.
Full oft he suffer'd bangs and drubs,
And full as oft took pains in tubs;
Of which the most that can be said,
He pray'd and fought, and fought and pray’d.
As for his personage and shape,
Among the rest we'll let them scape ;
Nor do we, as things stand, think fit
15 This stone should meddle with his wit. One thing, 'tis true, we ought to tell, He liv'd and dy'd a colonel ; And for the Good old Cause stood buff, 'Gainst many a bitter kick and cuff. But, fince his Worship 's dead and gone, And mouldering lies beneath this stone, The Reader is desir'd to look, For his atchievements in his Book ; Which will preserve of Knight the Tale,
25 Till Time and Death itself thall fail.