Samuel(poetButler (1612 – 1680)
English satirical poet.
Or shear swine, all cry and no wool.
Cheer'd up himself with ends of verse
And sayings of philosophers.
And weave fine cobwebs, fit for skull
That's empty when the moon is full;
Such as take lodgings in a head
That's to be let unfurnished.
While the honour thou hast got
Is spick and span new.
True as the dial to the sun,
Although it be not shin'd upon.
Nor do I know what is become
Of him, more than the Pope of Rome.
Where entity and quiddity,
The ghosts of defunct bodies, fly.
He cou'd foretel whats'ever was
By consequence to come to pass;
As death of great men, alterations,
Diseases, battles, inundations.
All this, without th' eclipse o' th' sun,
Or dreadful comet, he hath done,
By inward light; away as good,
And easy to be understood;
But with more lucky hit than those
That use to make the stars depose,
Like Knights o' th' post, and falsely charge
Upon themselves what others forge:
As if they were consenting to
All mischiefs in the world men do:
Or, like the Devil, did tempt and sway 'em
To rogueries, and then betray 'em.
But still his tongue ran on, the less
Of weight it bore, with greater ease.
What makes all doctrines plain and clear?
About two hundred pounds a year.
And that which was prov'd true before
Prove false again? Two hundred more.
As the ancients
Say wisely, have a care o' th' main chance,
And look before you ere you leap;
For as you sow, ye are like to reap.
For those that fly may fight again,
Which he can never do that's slain.
For what is worth in anything
But so much money as 't will bring?
To swallow gudgeons ere they 're catch'd,
And count their chickens ere they're hatch'd.
We grant, although he had much wit,
He was very shy of using it.
Beside, 't is known he could speak Greek
As naturally as pigs squeak;
That Latin was no more difficile
Than to a blackbird 't is to whistle.
But Hudibras gave him a twitch
As quick as lightning in the breech,
Just in the place where honour's lodg'd,
As wise philosophers have judg'd;
Because a kick in that part more
Hurts honour than deep wounds before.
If he that in the field is slain
Be in the bed of honour lain,
He that is beaten may be said
To lie in honour's truckle-bed.
With many a stiff thwack, many a bang,
Hard crab-tree and old iron rang.
Love in your hearts as idly burns
As fire in antique Roman urns.