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But muft reflect, alas! alas!

All human glory fades like grafs,
And that the strongest martial feats
Of errant knights are all but cheats!
Witness our Knight, who fure 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,

Or than our modern heroes can,

To take them fingly man by man.

No, fure, the grifly King of terror
Has been to blame, and in an error,
To iffue his dead-warrant forth

To seize a knight of so much worth,
Juft in the nick of all his glory;

I tremble when I tell the ftory.


Oh! help me, help me, fome kind Muse,
This furly tyrant to abuse,


Who, in his rage, has been fo cruel

To rob the world of fuch 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 fingle 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 fo very nice,

That, to speak truth, th' account it loft,
In which he did excel the most.

When he forfook the peaceful dwelling,

And out he went a colonelling,

Strange hopes and fears poffeft the nation,
How he could manage that vocation,


Until he fhew'd it to a wonder,


How nobly he could fight and plunder.

At preaching, too, he was a dab,
More exquifite by far than Squab;
He could fetch ufes, and infer,
Without the help of metaphor,
From any Scripture text, howe'er
Remote it from the purpofe were;
And with his fift, inftead of a stick,
Beat pulpit, drum ecclefiaftick,

Till he made all the audience weep,
Excepting thofe that fell asleep.
Then at the bar he was right able,




And famous, too, at petty feffions,

And could bind o'er as well as fwaddle;

"Gainst thieves and whores, for long digreffions.


He could moft learnedly determine

To Bridewell, or the stocks, the vermin.
For his addrefs and way of living,
All his behaviour, was fo moving,
That, let the dame be ne'er fo chafte,
As people fay, below the waift,


If Hudibras but once come at her,

He 'd quickly make her chaps to water:
Then for his equipage and shape,
On veftals 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 Tomfon far'd,
And what hard conflict was between
Our Knight and that infulting 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


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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 perquifite.
Howe'er it was, the wound fhe gave
The Knight, he carry'd to his grave:


Vile harlot to destroy a knight,


That could both plead, and pray, and fight.

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Oh! cruel, base, inhuman drab,
To give him fuch a mortal ftab,
That made him pine away and moulder,
As though that he had been no foldier:
Could't thou find no one elfe 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 ftout Crowdero prifoner;
And did fuch wonders all along,

That far exceed both pen and tongue ?
If he had been in battle flain,
We 'ad had lefs reafon to complain;
But to be murder'd by a whore,
Was ever knight fo ferv'd before?
But, fince 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 fum up all-from love and danger
He's now (O happy Knight!) a stranger;
And, if a Mufe can aught foretell,

His fame shall fill a chronicle,

And he in after-ages be

Of errant knights th' epitome.







NDER this ftone refts Hudibras,


A Knight as errant as e'er was ;
The controverfy only lies,

Whether he was more ftout than wife;
Nor can we here pretend to fay,
Whether he beft could fight or pray;
So, till those questions are decided,
His virtues must reft undivided.
Full oft he fuffer'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 perfonage and shape,
Among the reft we'll let them scape;
Nor do we, as things ftand, think fit
This ftone fhould 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 Caufe ftood 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 defir'd to look,
For his atchievements in his Book ;
Which will preferve of Knight the Tale,
Till Time and Death itself shall fail.







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