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But man delights to have his ears Blown maggots in by flatterers.

ALL wit does but divert men from the road In which things vulgarly are understood, And force Mistake and Ignorance to own A better sense than commonly is known.

IN little trades, more cheats and lying Are us'd in selling than in buying; But in the great, unjuster dealing Is us'd in buying than in selling.

ALL smatterers are more brisk and pert Than those that understand an art; As little sparkles shine more bright Than glowing coals, that give them light.

LAW does not put the least restraint Upon our freedom, but maintain 't; Or, if it does, 'tis for our good, To give us freer latitude:

For wholesome laws preserve us free, By stinting of our liberty.

THE world has long endeavour'd to reduce Those things to practice that are of no use; And strives to practise things of speculation, And bring the practical to contemplation; And by that errour renders both in vain, By forcing Nature's course against the grain.

In all the world there is no vice Less prone t' excess than avarice; It neither cares for food nor clothing: Nature 's content with little, that with nothing.

IN Rome no temple was so low As that of Honour, built to show How humble honour ought to be, Though there 'twas all authority.

Ir is a harder thing for men to rate Their own parts at an equal estimate, Than cast up fractions, in th' account of Heaven, Of time and motion, and adjust them even; For modest persons never had a true Particular of all that is their due.

SOME people's fortunes, like a weft or stray, Are only gain'd by losing of their way.

As he that makes his mark is understood To write his name, and 'tis in law as good; So he, that cannot write one word of sense, Believes he has as legal a pretence To scribble what he does not understand, As idiots have a title to their land.

WERE Tully now alive, he 'd be to seek In all our Latin terms of art and Greek; Would never understand one word of sense The most irrefragable schoolman means: As if the schools design'd their terms of art Not to advance à science, but divert; As Hocus Pocus conjures, to amuse The rabble from observing what he does.

As 'tis a greater mystery, in the art Of painting, to foreshorten any part

Than draw it out; so 'tis in books the chief Of all perfections to be plain and brief.

THE man, that for his profit 's bought t' obey, Is only hir'd, on liking, to betray; And, when he's bid a liberaller price, Will not be sluggish in the work, nor nice.

OPINIATORS naturally differ

From other men; as wooden legs are stiffer Than those of pliant joints, to yield and bow, Which way soe'er they are design'd to go.

NAVIGATION, that withstood

The mortal fury of the Flood,
And prov'd the only means to save
All earthly creatures from the wave,
Has, for it, taught the sea and wind
To lay a tribute on mankind,
That, by degrees, has swallow'd more
Than all it drown'd at once before.

THE prince of Syracuse, whose destin'd fate
It was to keep a school and rule a state,
Found, that his sceptre never was so aw'd,
As when it was translated to a rod;
And that his subjects ne'er were so obedient,
As when he was inaugurated pedant:
For to instruct is greater than to rule,
And no command 's so imperious as a school.

As he, whose destiny does prove
To dangle in the air above,
Does lose his life for want of air,
That only fell to be his share;
So he, whom Fate at once design'd
To plenty and a wretched mind,
Is but condemn'd t' a rich distress,
And starves with niggardly excess.

THE universal med'cine is a trick,

That Nature never meant, to cure the sick,
Unless by death, the singular receipt,
To root out all diseases by the great:
For universals deal in no one part
Of Nature, nor particulars of Art;

And therefore that French quack, that set up physic,
Call'd his receipt a general specific.

For, though in mortal poisons every one

Is mortal universally alone,

Yet Nature never made an antidote
To cure them all as easy as they 're got;
Much less, among so many variations
Of different maladies and complications,
Make all the contrarieties in Nature
Submit themselves t' an equal moderator.

A CONVERT 's but a fly, that turns about, After his head 's pull'd off, to find it out

ALL mankind is but a rabble,
As silly and unreasonable

As those that, crowding in the street,
To see a show or monster, meet;
Of whom no one is in the right,

Yet all fall out about the sight;

And, when they chance t' agree, the choice is
Still in the most and worst of vices;
And all the reasons that prevail

Are measur'd, not by weight, but tale.

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TO THE SAME.

Do not mine affection slight,

'Cause my locks with age are white:

THOSE get the least that take the greatest pains, Your breasts have snow without, and snow within,

But most of all i' th' drudgery of brains;

A natural sign of weakness, as an ant

Is more laborious than an elephant;

And children are more busy at their play,

Than those that wisely'st pass their time away.

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While flames of fire in your bright eyes are seen.

EPIGRAM ON A CLUB OF SOTS.

THE jolly members of a toping club,
Like pipe-staves, are but hoop'd into a tub,
And in a close confederacy link,
For nothing else but only to hold drink.

TRIPLETS UPON AVARICE.

As misers their own laws enjoin,
To wear no pockets in the mine,
For fear they should the ore purloin;

So he that toils and labours hard
To gain, and what he gets has spar'd,
Is from the use of all debarr'd.

And, though he can produce more spankers Than all the usurers and bankers,

Yet after more and more he hankers;

And, after all his pains are done,
Has nothing he can call his own,
But a mere livelihood alone.

DESCRIPTION OF HOLLAND.

A COUNTRY that draws fifty foot of water,
In which men live as in the hold of Nature,
And, when the sea does in upon them break,
And drowns a province, does but spring a leak;
That always ply the pump, and never think
They can be safe, but at the rate they stink;
That live as if they had been run aground,
And, when they die, are cast away and drown'd;
That dwell in ships, like swarms of rats, and prey
Upon the goods all nations' fleets convey;
And, when their merchants are blown-up and crackt,
Whole towns are cast away in storms, and wreckt;
That feed, like cannibals, on other fishes,
And serve their cousin-germans up in dishes:
A land that rides at anchor, and is moor'd,
In which they do not live, but go aboard.

HUDIBRAS'S ELEGY',

IN days of yore, when knight or squire
By Fate were summon'd to retire,
Some menia! poet still was near,

To bear them to the hemisphere,

And there among the stars to leave them,
Until the gods sent to relieve them:

And sure our knight, whose very sight wou'd
Entitle him Mirror of Knighthood,
Should be neglected lie, and rot,
Stink in his grave, and be forgot,
Would have just reason to complain,
If he should chance to rise again;
And therefore, to prevent his dudgeon,
In mournful doggrel thus we trudge on.

Oh me! what tongue, what pen, can tell
How this renowned champion fell,
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 men and women down
Than Bevis of Southampton town,

I Neither this elegy, nor the following epitaph, is to be found in The Genuine Remains of Butler, as published by Mr. Thyer. Both however having frequently been reprinted in The Posthumous Works of Samuel Butler, and as they, besides, relate to the hero of his particular poem, there needs no apology for their being thus preserved. other of the posthumous poems would not have disgraced their supposed author; but, as they are so positively rejected by Mr. Thyer, we have not ventured to admit them. N.

Some

Or than our modern heroes can,
To take them singly man by man.

No, sure, the grisly king of terrour
Has been to blame, and in an errour,
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 so 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 spice,
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 possest the nation,
How he could manage that vocation,
Until he show'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 fist, instead of a stick,
Beat pulpit, drum ecclesiastic,

Till be 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 so chaste,
As people say, below the waist,
If Hudibras but once came at her,
He'd quickly made 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 gipsy'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 faté 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 she gave
The knight, he carry'd to his grave:
Vile harlot to destroy a knight,
That could both plead, and pray, and fight.
Oh! cruel, base, inhuman drab,
To give him such a mortal stab,
That made him pine away and moulder,
As though that he had been no soldier:
Could'st thou find no one else to kill,
Thou instrument 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 slain,
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 so fam'd in civil war.

To sum up 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' epitome.

HUDIBRAS'S EPITAPH.

UNDER this stone rests Hudibras,
A knight as errant as e'er was;
The controversy only lies,
Whether he was more stout than wise;
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
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, since his worship 's dead and gone,
And mouldering lies beneath this stone,
The reader is desir'd to look,
For his achievements in his book;
Which will preserve of knight the tale,
Till Time and Death itself shall fail.

SELECT

POEMS

OF THE

EARL OF ROCHESTER.

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