Hudibras - Samuel Butler (story reading txt) 📗

chance,
From hence, to spring a variance,
And raise among themselves new scruples,
Whom common danger hardly couples.
Remember how, in arms and politics,
We still have worsted all your holy tricks;
Trepann’d your party with intrigue,
And took your grandees down a peg;
New modell’d th’ army, and cashier’d
All that to legion Smec adher’d;
Made a mere utensil o’ your church,
And after left it in the lurch;
A scaffold to build up our own,
And, when w’ had done with’t, pull’d it down
Capoch’d your rabbins of the synod,
And snap’d their canons with a why-not?
(Grave synod men, that were rever’d
For solid face and depth of beard;)
Their classic model prov’d a maggot,
Their direct’ry an Indian Pagod;
And drown’d their discipline like a kitten,
On which they’d been so long a sitting;
Decry’d it as a holy cheat,
Grown out of date, and obsolete;
And all the Saints of the first grass,
As casting foals of Balaam’s ass.

At this the Knight grew high in chafe,
And staring furiously on Ralph,
He trembled, and look’d pale with ire;
Like ashes first, then red as fire.
Have I (quoth he) been ta’en in fight,
And for so many moons lain by’t,
And, when all other means did fail,
Have been exchang’d for tubs of ale?101
Not but they thought me worth a ransom
Much more consid’rable and handsome,
But for their own sakes, and for fear
They were not safe when I was there
Now to be baffled by a scoundrel,
An upstart sect’ry, and a mongrel,
Such as breed out of peccant humours,
Of our own church, like wens or tumours,
And, like a maggot in a sore,
Would that which gave it life devour;
It never shall be done or said:
With that he seiz’d upon his blade;
And Ralpho too, as quick and bold,
Upon his basket-hilt laid hold,
With equal readiness prepar’d
To draw, and stand upon his guard;
When both were parted on the sudden,
With hideous clamour, and a loud one,
As if all sorts of noise had been
Contracted into one loud din;
Or that some member to be chosen,
Had got the odds above a thousand,
And, by the greatness of his noise,
Prov’d fittest for his country’s choice.
This strange surprisal put the Knight
And wrathful Squire into a fright;
And though they stood prepar’d, with fatal
Impetuous rancour to join battle,
Both thought it was the wisest course
To wave the fight and mount to horse,
And to secure, by swift retreating,
Themselves from danger of worse beating.
Yet neither of them would disparage,
By utt’ring of his mind, his courage;
Which made them stoutly keep their ground,
With horror and disdain wind-bound.

And now the cause of all their fear
By slow degrees approach’d so near,
They might distinguish different noise
Of horns, and pans, and dogs, and boys,
And kettle-drums, whose sullen dub
Sounds like the hooping of a tub.
But when the sight appear’d in view,
They found it was an antique show;
A triumph, that, for pomp and state,
Did proudest Romans emulate:
For as the aldermen of Rome
Their foes at training overcome,
And not enlarging territory
(As some mistaken write in story),
Being mounted, in their best array,
Upon a car, and who but they!
And follow’d with a world of tall-lads,
That merry ditties troll’d, and ballads,
Did ride with many a good-morrow,
Crying, “Hey for our town!” through the borough;
So when this triumph drew so nigh
They might particulars descry,
They never saw two things so pat,
In all respects, as this and that.
First he that led the cavalcade,
Wore a sow-gelder’s flagellate,
On which he blew as strong a levet
As well-fee’d lawyer on his breviate,
When over one another’s heads
They charge (three ranks at once) like Swedes.
Next pans and kettles of all keys,
From trebles down to double base;
And after them, upon a nag,
That might pass for a forehand stag,
A cornet rode, and on his staff
A smock display’d did proudly wave.
Then bagpipes of the loudest drones,
With snuffling broken-winded tones,
Whose blasts of air, in pockets shut,
Sound filthier than from the gut,
And make a viler noise than swine
In windy weather, when they whine.
Next one upon a pair of panniers,
Full fraught with that which for good manners
Shall here be nameless, mixt with grains,
Which he dispens’d among the swains,
And busily upon the crowd
At random round about bestow’d.
Then, mounted on a horned horse,
One bore a gauntlet and gilt spurs,
Ty’d to the pummel of a long sword
He held reverst, the point turn’d downward.
Next after, on a raw-bon’d steed,
The conqueror’s standard-bearer rid,
And bore aloft before the champion
A petticoat display’d, and rampant;
Near whom the Amazon triumphant
Bestrid her beast, and on the rump on’t
Sat face to tail, and bum to bum,
The warrior whilom overcome,
Arm’d with a spindle and a distaff,
Which, as he rode, she made him twist off;
And when he loiter’d, o’er her shoulder
Chastis’d the reformado soldier.
Before the dame, and round about,
March’d whifflers and staffiers on foot,
With lackies, grooms, valets, and pages,
In fit and proper equipages;
Of whom some torches bore, some links,
Before the proud virago minx,
That was both Madam and a Don,
Like Nero’s Sporus, or Pope Joan;
And at fit periods the whole rout
Set up their throats with clamorous shout.
The Knight, transported, and the Squire,
Put up their weapons, and their ire;
And Hudibras, who us’d to ponder
On such sights with judicious wonder,
Could hold no longer to impart
His animadversions, for his heart.

Quoth he, In all my life, till now,
I ne’er saw so profane a show.
It is a Paganish invention,
Which heathen writers often mention:
And he who made it had read Goodwin,
Or Ross, or Caelius Rhodogine,
With all the Grecian Speeds and Stows,
That best describe those ancient shows;
And has observ’d all fit decorums
We find describ’d by old historians:
For as the Roman conqueror,
That put an end to foreign war,
Ent’ring the town in triumph for it,
Bore a slave with him, in his chariot;102
So this insulting female brave,
Carries behind her here a slave:
And as the ancients long ago,
When they in field defy’d the foe,
Hung out their mantles della guerre,103
So her proud standard-bearer here
Waves on his spear, in dreadful manner,
A Tyrian petticoat for banner.
Next links and torches, heretofore104
Still borne before the emperor:
And as, in antique triumphs, eggs
Were borne for mystical intrigues,
There’s one with truncheon, like a ladle,
That carries eggs too, fresh or addle;
And still at random, as he goes,
Among the rabble-rout bestows.

Quoth Ralpho, You mistake the matter;
For all th’ antiquity you smatter
Is but a riding us’d of course,
When the grey mare’s the better horse;
When o’er the breeches