YOVR SERVANT SIR, OR Ralpho to Hudibras Descanting on Wilds Poetry.
LOe, now comes he, that came not yet,
Who cares not though his Master fret;
As Shoomaker so hath Translator,
In stirrup Foot; so Imitator
Of
Hudibras is little
Ralph,
But servant hath more wit bit'h half.
This Doughty Knight by Puny Squire
Out done is, as a simple Syre
Is by his wiser Son surpassed,
So much doth
Ralph exceed this rash head,
As doth the Quiristers
Sol fa-la-mi,
Old
Hopkins Rhimes when sung by
Calamy.
Brave Squire against proud Knight doth vant,
And proves as stout a Combatant,
With
Oberon as was
Pig-wiggin
Whose head was arm'd with Achorn Piggin:
Here may be seen, as in a Glass,
The Mushrom wit of
Hudibras,
Who can't avoid in best of writing
Such stinking stuffe as that of sh—
The Squire hath got the quicker sight
Mounted on back of Giant-Knight.
HAh, are ye come? Welcome Sir
Hudibras,
For all you are my Master, y' are an Ass.
Parturient Montes sith you make a blunder,
Not in
Wild Squibs, but Lightning joynd with Thunder,
I question if you are as you pretend
Unto the
Bishops and the
Church, a friend,
For by those words a man that hath no eyes,
May plainly see you do
Hiperbolize:
A
Bishop's calmly urgent, makes no stir,
Nor Thumps the Cushion like a
Presbyter,
He spits no fire, nor Wildly throws about
Hell and Damnation amongst the rout;
Flint breaks on
Pillows: Tis not Pulpit Thunder
But mild perswasion melts mens hearts asunder.
Sugar and Hony excelleth gall or Verjuice,
A
Barnabas wins more then
Boanerges:
Such fiery Zealots by their Frantick fits
Drive others (like themselves) besides their wits.
You play with th'
Organs, and their virtue show,
As if you thought there were no Devil below:
After which your more sordid stile is held on,
(Sans Reverence to the name of
Paules or
Sh
[...]ldon)
Gainst
Calamy, by
Metaphor descrying
Your malice to a man that lies a dying,
To kick a worm what glory may be found?
That's dead in Law, and prostrate on the ground,
Is he a bird of prey ? (buzzard or Kite)
Mute had been better far then plainly sh—
See how the Term with his condition sutes,
Preachers when silenc't, what are they but
Mutes?
Thus do I (like your self) quibble at
quicquid
In Buccham venerit, or
Mute or
liquid:
Not that I hate you, yet you must not think
That Wits whole Mass is lodged in the chinck
Of your own Scull, Sir, but that
Ralph your man
Hath somewhat likewise in the little pan
Of's
Pe
[...]i
[...]
[...]i
[...]m is not such an Ass
As still to be outvi'd by
Hudibras.
To wake the
Bishops you do make a Roare,
And tell them nought but what they knew before.
How they should be a sleep I much do wonder,
Since you compare them unto fire and Thunder,
Though what you say of
Calamy be true,
Yet tis not meet to lance old sores a new,
To write a crime thats past on th'Actors Front,
Whilst that
Amnestia remains upon't.
The
King hath pardon'd such, then why should we
Stir up again their stinking memory?
But if they Act again those faults a new,
Then
Dun and
Devil (a Gods name) take your due.
Now leave we
Calamy, and come to trace
Thee
Hudibras throughout thy
Wild-goose Chase,
In other manner then doth
True de Case,
Who least he should be thought for to transgress
Ends (
Poetaster-like)
The King God bless —
Whose sacred name should not be made a Sallad
For Bread and Butter, such mean fare's a Ballad.
And here I must confess that
Wild hath hit
On sev'ral pritty passages of wit;
Although your Knight-ship's pleas'd at's lines to flout,
Saying his Verses (like him) have the Gout:
The difference twixt you both is not a pin,
Squibbing and
Squirting (Sir) are neer a kin.
Tis true, his rhimes too much abusive bee,
But thine's the more Profaner Ribaldry;
In down right words he Jerks at
Calamy,
Thou at the
Prelates by an
Irony:
Two Cocks well matcht, for his Invention sprung
From Tap and Spigot, thine flows from the bung.
His Verse is vain enough, since wanton lines
Become
Knights Errant, rather then
Divines,
Being shrewdly vext for that he cannot handle
In Church a Text, he dies like
snuff of Candle;
Much discontented since that none will mind him
And being dead, hath left a
stinck behind him.
But
Hudibras tis strange what should thee move
To take i'th Ashes of deceased
Love;
That
son of
Thunder by some men admir'd,
Vollies whereof were heard when he expir'd.
Thy Rav'nous
Muse too, wanting better Cates
Must feed on
Peters Quarters ore the
Gates.
Such Darts gainst their dead Carcasses being hurld,
May chance to vex 'em in the other world;
And cause their
Ghosts to haunt thee in the night,
Enough to scare a poor
Romantick Knight
Out of his wits, if such a thing should be
Thou wouldst be rob'd of all thy
Poetry:
And if thy rhiming faculty once fail
Thou'lt shortly after die for want of
Ale.
Or if thou dost hold on to vex
Wild thus,
Thou'lt make him furious as
Archilocus,
Whose keen
Iambicks may thy credit blast.
And force thee through a
Rope to breath thy last.
FINIS.