He thought upon it, and resolv'd to put His beard into as wonderful a cut,
And, for the further service of the women, Tabate the rigidness of his opinion; And, but a day before, had been to find The ablest virtuoso of the kind,
With whom he long and seriously conferr'd On all intrigues that might concern his beard; By whose advice he sate for a design In little drawn, exactly to a line,
That if the creature chance to have occasion
To undergo a thorough reformation, It might be borne conveniently about, And by the meanest artist copy'd out.
This done, he sent a journeyman sectary
He 'ad brought up to retrieve, and fetch, and carry, To find out one that had the greatest practice, To prune and bleach the beards of all fanatics, And set their most confus'd disorders right, Not by a new design, but newer light; Who us'd to shave the grandees of their sticklers, And crop the worthies of their conventiclers; To whom he show'd his new-invented draught, And told him how 'twas to be copy'd out.
Quoth he, "Tis but a false and counterfeit, And scandalous device of human wit, That's abslutely forbidden in the Scripture, To make of any carnal thing the picture."
Quoth th' other saint, “You must leave that to us, Tagree what 's lawful, or what scandalous, For, till it is determin'd by our vote, Tis either lawful, scandalous, or not: Which, since we have not yet agreed upon, Is left indifferent to avoid or own."
Quoth he, "My conscience never shall agree To do it, till I know what 'tis to be; For though I use it in a lawful time, What if it after should be made a crime?
""Tis true we fought for liberty of conscience, 'Gainst human constitutions, in our own sense, Which I'm resolv'd perpetually t' avow, And make it lawful whatsoe'er we do; Then do your office with your greatest skill, And let th' event befal us how it will."
This said, the nice barbarian took his tools, To prune the zealot's tenets and his jowles; Talk'd on as pertinently as he snipt, A hundred times for every hair he clipt; Until the Beard at length began t' appear, And reassume its antique character,
Grew more and more itself, that art might strive, And stand in competition with the life; For some have doubted if 'twere made of snips Of sables, glew'd and fitted to his lips, And set in such an artificial frame, As if it had been wrought in filograin, More subtly fil'd and polish'd than the gin That Vulcan caught himself a cuckold in; That Lachesis, that spins the threads of Fate, Could not have drawn it out more delicate. But being design'd and drawn so regular, Ta scrupulous punctilio of a hair, Who could imagine that it should be portal To selfish, inward-unconforming mortal? And yet it was, and did abominate
The least compliance in the church or state, And from itself did equally dissent, As from religion and the government 2.
2 I find among Butler's manuscripts several
THE WEAKNESS AND MISERY OF MAN. WHO would believe that wicked Earth, Where Nature only brings us forth To be found guilty and forgiven, Should be a nursery for Heaven; When all we can expect to do Will not pay half the debt we owe, And yet more desperately dare, As if that wretched trifle were Too much for the eternal Powers, Our great and mighty creditors, Not only slight what they enjoin, But pay it in adulterate coin? We only in their mercy trust, To be more wicked and unjust; All our devotions, vows, and prayers, Are our own interest, not theirs ; Our offerings, when we come t'adore, But begging presents to get more; The purest business of our zeal
Is but to err, by meaning well,
And make that meaning do more harm Than our worst deeds, that are less warm; For the most wretched and perverse Does not believe himself he errs.
Our holiest actions have been Th' effects of wickedness and sin; Religious houses made compounders For th' horrid actions of the founders; Steeples that totter'd in the air, By letchers sinn'd into repair; As if we had retain'd no sign Nor character of the divine And heavenly part of human nature, But only the coarse earthy matter.
other little sketches upon the same subject, but none worth printing, except the following one may be thought passable, by way of note.
This reverend brother, like a goat, Did wear a tail upon his throat, The fringe and tassel of a face, That gives it a becoming grace, But set in such a curious frame, As if 'twere wrought in filograin, And cut so even, as if 't had been Drawn with a pen upon his chin. No topiary hedge of quickset Was e'er so neatly cut or thick set, That made beholders more admire, Than China-plate that 's made of wire; But being wrought so regular
In every part, and every hair, Who would believe it should be portal To unconforming-inward mortal? And yet it was, and did dissent No less from its own government, Than from the church's, and detest That which it held forth and profest; Did equally abominate
Conformity in church and state; And, like an hypocritic brother, Profess'd one thing and did another; As all things, where they 're most profest, Are found to be regarded least.
Our universal inclination Tends to the worst of our creation; As if the stars conspir'd t' imprint, In our whole species, by instinct, A fatal brand and signature Of nothing else but the impure. The best of all our actions tend To the preposterousest end,
And, like to mongrels, we 're inclin'd To take most to th' ignobler kind; Or monsters, that have always least Of th' human parent, not the beast. Hence 'tis we 've no regard at all Of our best half original;
But, when they differ, still assert The interest of th' ignobler part; Spend all the time we have upon The vain capriches of the one,
But grudge to spare one hour to know What to the better part we owe. As, in all compound substances, The greater still devours the less; So, being born and bred up near Our earthy gross relations here, Far from the ancient nobler place Of all our high paternal race, We now degenerate, and grow As barbarous, and mean, and low, As modern Grecians are, and worse, To their brave nobler ancestors. Yet, as no barbarousness beside Is half so barbarous as pride, Nor any prouder insolence
Than that which has the least pretence, We are so wretched to profess A glory in our wretchedness; To vapour sillily, and rant, Of our own misery and want, And grow vain-glorious on a score We ought much rather to deplore; Who, the first moment of our lives, Are but condemn'd, and giv'n reprieves; And our great'st grace is not to know When we shall pay them back, nor how; Begotten with a vain caprich, And live as vainly to that pitch.
Our pains are real things, and all Our pleasures but fantastical; Diseases of their own accord, But cures come difficult and hard. Our noblest piles, and stateliest rooms, Are but outhouses to our tombs; Cities, though e'er so great and brave, But mere warehouses to the grave. Our bravery's but a vain disguise, To hide us from the world's dull eyes, The remedy of a defect,
With which our nakedness is deckt; Yet makes us swell with pride, and boast, As if we 'd gain'd by being lost.
All this is nothing to the evils
Which men, and their confederate devils, Inflict, to aggravate the curse
On their own hated kind much worse;" As if by Nature they 'd been serv'd More gently than their fate deserv'd, Take pains (in justice) to invent, And study their own punishment;
That, as their crimes should greater grow, So might their own inflictions too.
Hence bloody wars at first began, The artificial plague of man, That from his own invention rise, To scourge his own iniquities;
That, if the heavens should chance to spare Supplies of constant poison'd air, They might not, with unfit delay, For lingering destruction stay; Nor seek recruits of Death so far, But plague themselves with blood and war. And if these fail, there is no good Kind Nature e'er on man bestow'd, But he can easily divert
To his own misery and hurt ;
Make that which Heaven meant to bless Th' ungrateful world with, gentle Peace, With luxury and excess, as fast As war and desolation, waste; Promote mortality, and kill,
As fast as arms, by sitting still; Like earthquakes, slay without a blow, And, only moving, overthrow; Make law and equity as dear As plunder and free-quarter were, Aud fierce encounters at the bar Undo as fast as those in war; Enrich bawds, whores, and usurers; Pimps, scriveners, silenc'd ministers, That get estates by being undone For tender conscience, and have none. Like those that with their credit drive A trade, without a stock, and thrive; Advance men in the church and state For being of the meanest rate, Rais'd for their double-guil'd deserts, Before integrity and parts; Produce more grievious complaints For plenty, than before for wants, And make a rich and fruitful year A greater grievance than a dear; Make jests of greater dangers far, Than those they trembled at in war; Till, unawares, they 've laid a train To blow the public up again; Rally with horrour, and, in sport, Rebellion and destruction court, And make fanatics, in despight Of all their madness, reason right, And vouch to all they have foreshown, As other monsters oft have done, Although from truth and sense as far, As all their other maggots are: For things said false, and never meant, Do oft prove true by accident.
That wealth, that bounteous Fortune sends As presents to her dearest friends,
Is oft laid out upon a purchase
Of two yards long in parish-churches, And those too-happy men that bought it Had liv'd, and happier too, without it: For what does vast wealth bring but cheat, Law, luxury, disease, and debt; Pain, pleasure, discontent, and sport, An easy-troubled life, and short?
UPON THE LICENTIOUS AGE OF CHARLES II.
But all these plagues are nothing near Those, far more cruel and severe, Unhappy man takes pains to find, T' inflict himself upon his mind: And out of his own bowels spins A rack and torture for his sins; Torments himself in vain, to know That most which he can never do; And, the more strictly 'tis deny'd, The more he is unsatisfy'd; Is busy in finding scruples out, To languish in eternal doubt;
Sees spectres in the dark, and ghosts, And starts, as horses do at posts, And, when his eves assist him least, Discerns such subtle objects best. On hypothetic dreams and visions Grounds everlasting disquisitions, And raises endless controversies On vulgar theorems and hearsays; Grows positive and confident, In things so far beyond th' extent Of human sense, he does not know Whether they be at all or no,
And doubts as much in things that are As plainly evident and clear; Disdains all useful sense, and plain, T' apply to th' intricate and vain; And cracks his brains in plodding on That, which is never to be known; To pose himself with subtleties, And hold no other knowledge wise; Although, the subtler all things are, They 're but to nothing the more near; And, the less weight they can sustain, The more he still lays on in vain, And hangs his soul upon as nice And subtle curiosities,
As one of that vast multitude,
That on a needle's point have stood;
Weighs right and wrong, and true and false, Upon as nice and subtle scales,
As those that turn upon a plane With th' hundredth part of half a grain, And still the subtler they move, The sooner false and useless prove. So man, that thinks to force and strain, Beyond its natural sphere, his brain, In vain torments it on the rack, And, for improving, sets it back; Is ignorant of his own extent,
And that to which his aims are bent;
Is lost in both, and breaks his blade Upon the anvil where 'twas made: For, as abortions cost more pain Than vigorous births, so all the vain And weak productions of man's wit, That aim at purposes unfit, Require more drudgery, and worse, Than those of strong and lively force.
THE LICENTIOUS AGE OF CHARLES II.
is a strange age we 've liv'd in, and a lewd, As e'er the Sun in all his travels view'd; An age as vile as ever Justice urg'd, Like a fantastic letcher, to be scourg'd; Nor has it scap'd, and yet has only learn'd, The more 'tis plagued, to be the less concern'd. Twice have we seen two dreadful judgments rage, Enough to fright the stubborn'st-hearted age; The one to mow vast crowds of people down, The other (as then needless) half the town; And two as mighty miracles restore What both had ruin'd and destroy'd before; In all as unconcern'd, as if they 'ad been But pastimes for diversion to be seen, Or, like the plagues of Egypt, meant a curse, Not to reclaim us, but to make us worse. [head) Twice have men turn'd the World (that silly block- The wrong side outward, like a juggler's pocket, Shook out hypocrisy as fast and loose As e'er the Devil could teach, or sinners use, And on the other side at once put in
As impotent iniquity and sin.
As sculls that have been crack'd are often found Upon the wrong side to receive the wound; And like tobacco-pipes at one end hit, To break at the other still that 's opposite: So men, who one extravagance would shun, Into the contrary extreme have run; And all the difference is, that, as the first Provokes the other freak to prove the worst, So, in return, that strives to render less The last delusion, with its own excess, And, like two unskill'd gamesters, use one way, With bungling t' help out one another's play. For those who heretofore sought private holes, Secure in the dark to damn their souls, Wore vizards of hypocrisy to steal And slink away in masquerade to Hell,
not regularly inserted, I choose rather to give them Now bring their crimes into the open Sun,
For men ne'er digg'd so deep into The bowels of the Earth below, For metals, that are found to dwell Near neighbour to the pit of Hell, And have a magic power to sway The greedy souls of men that way, But with their bodies have been fain To fill those trenches up again; When bloody battles have been fought For sharing that which they took out: For wealth is all things that conduce To man's destruction or his use; A standard both to buy and sell All things from Heaven down to Hell.
For all mankind to gaze their worst upon, As cagles try their young against his rays, To prove if they 're of generous breed or base; Call Heaven and Earth to witness how they 've aim'd, With all their utmost vigour, to be damn'd, And by their own examples, in the view Of all the world, striv'd to damn others too; On all occasions sought to be as civil As possible they could t' his grace the Devil, To give him no unnecessary trouble, Nor in small matters use a friend so noble, But with their constant practice done their best T' improve and propagate his interest: For men have now made vice so great an art, The matter of fact 's become the slightest part;
And the debauched'st actions they can do, Mere trifles to the circumstance and show. For 'tis not what they do that 's now the sin, But what they lewdly affect and glory in. As if preposterously they would profess A fore'd hypocrisy of wickedness,
And affectation, that makes good things bad, Must make affected shame accurs'd and mad; For vices for themselves may find excuse, But never for their compliment and shews; That if there ever were a mystery Of moral secular iniquity,
And that the churches may not lose their due By being encroach'd upon, 'tis now, and new: For men are now as scrupulous and nice, And tender-conscienc'd of low paltry vice, Disdain as proudly to be thought to have To do in any mischief but the brave, As the most scrupulous zealot of late times T' appear in any but the horrid'st crimes; Have as precise and strict punctilios Now to appear, as then to make no shows, And steer the world, by disagreeing force Of different customs, 'gainst her natural course: So powerful 's ill Example to encroach, And Nature, spite of all her laws, debauch, Example, that imperious dictator,
Of all that 's good or bad to human nature, By which the world's corrupted and reclaim'd, Hopes to be sav'd, and studies to be damn'd; That reconciles all contrarieties,
Makes wisdom foolishness, and folly wise, Imposes on divinity, and sets
Her seal alike on truths and counterfeits; Alters all characters of virtue and vice, And passes one for th' other in disguise; Makes all things, as it pleases, understood, The good receiv'd for bad, and bad for good; That slyly counterchanges wrong and right, Like white in fields of black, and black in white; As if the laws of Nature had been made Of purpose only to be disobey'd; Or man had lost his mighty interest, By having been distinguish'd from a beast; And had no other way but sin and vice, To be restor'd again to Paradise.
How copious is our language lately grown, To make blaspheming wit, and a jargon! And yet how expressive and significant,
In damme, at once to curse, and swear, and rant! As if no way express'd men's souls so well, As damning of them to the pit of Hell; Nor any asseveration were so civil, As mortgaging salvation to the Devil;
Or that his name did add a charming grace, And blasphemy a purity to our phrase. For what can any language more enrich, Than to pay souls for viciating speech;
When the great'st tyrant in the world made those But lick their words out that abus'd his prose? What trivial punishments did then protect To public censure a profound respect, When the most shameful penance, and severe, That could b' inflicted on a cavalier, For infamous debauchery, was no worse Than but to be degraded from his horse, And have his livery of oats and hay, Instead of cutting spurs off, tak'n away? They held no torture then so great as shame, And that to slay was less than to defame;
For just so much regard as men express To th' censure of the public, more or less, The same will be return'd to them again, In shame or reputation, to a grain; And, how perverse soe'er the world appears, 'Tis just to all the bad it sees and hears, And for that virtue strives to be allow'd For all the injuries it does the good.
How silly were their sages heretofore, To fright their heroes with a siren whore! Make them believe a water-witch, with charms, Could sink their men of war as easy as storms, And turn their mariners, that heard them sing, Into land-porpusses, and cod and ling; To terrify those mighty champions,
As we do children now with Bloody bones; Until the subtlest of their conjurers Seal'd up the labels to his soul, his ears, And ty'd his deafen'd sailors (while he pass'd The dreadful lady's lodgings) to the mast, And rather venture drowning, than to wrong The sea-pugs' chaste ears with a bawdy song: To b' out of countenance, and, like an ass, Not pledge the lady Circe one beer-glass; Unmannerly refuse her treat and wine, For fear of being turn'd into a swine, When one of our heroic adventurers now Would drink her down, and turn her int' a sow!
So simple were those times, when a grave sage Could with an old wife's tale instruct the age, Teach virtue more fantastic ways and nice, Than ours will now endure t' improve in vice; Made a dull sentence, and a moral fable, Do more than all our holdings-forth are able, A forc'd obscure mythology convince, Beyond our worst inflictions upon sins; When an old proverb, or an end of verse, Could more than all our penal laws coerce, And keep men honester than all our furies Of jailors, judges, constables, and juries; Who were converted then with an old saying, Better than all our preaching now, and praying. What fops had these been, had they liv'd with us, Where the best reason 's made ridiculous, And all the plain and sober things we say, By raillery are put beside their play? For men are grown above all knowledge now, And what they 're ignorant of disdain to know; Engross truth (like fanatics) underhand, And boldly judge before they understand; The self-same courses equally advance, In spiritual and carnal ignorance, And, by the same degrees of confidence, Become impregnable against all sense; For, as they outgrew ordinances then, So would they now morality again. Though Drudgery and Knowledge are of kin, And both descended from one parent, Sin, And therefore seldom have been known to part, In tracing out the ways of Truth and Art, Yet they have north-west passages to steer, A short way to it, without pains or care: For, as implicit faith is far more stiff Than that which understands its own belief, So those that think, and do but think they know, Are far more obstinate than those that do, And more averse than if they 'ad ne'er been taught A wrong way, to a right one to be brought; Take boldness upon credit beforehand, And grow too positive to understand;
Believe themselves as knowing and as famous, As if their gifts had gotten a mandamus, A bill of store to take up a degree, With all the learning to it, custom-free,
And look as big for what they bought at court, As if they 'ad done their exercises for 't.
WHAT fool would trouble Fortune more, When she has been too kind before; Or tempt her to take back again What she had thrown away in vain, By idly venturing her good graces To be dispos'd of by ames-aces; Or settling it in trust to uses
Out of his power, on trays and deuces; To put it to the chance, and try, I' th' ballot of a box and die, Whether his money be his own, And lose it, if he be o'erthrown; As if he were betray'd, and set By his own stars to every cheat, Or wretchedly condemn'd by Fate To throw dice for his own estate; As mutineers, by fatal doom, Do for their lives upon a drum? For what less influence can produce So great a monster as a chouse, Or any two-legg'd thing possess With such a brutish sottishness? Unless those tutelary stars, Intrusted by astrologers
To have the charge of man, combin'd To use him in the self-same kind;
As those that help'd them to the trust, Are wont to deal with others just. For to become so sadly dull And stupid, as to fine for gull, (Not, as in cities, to b' excus'd, But to be judg'd fit to be us'd) That whosoe'er can draw it in Is sure inevitably t' win,
And, with a curs'd half-witted fate, To grow more dully desperate,
The more 'tis made a common prey, And cheated foppishly at play, Is their condition; Fate betrays To Folly first, and then destroys, For what but miracles can serve So great a madness to preserve,
As his, that ventures goods and chattles (Where there's no quarter given) in battles, And fights with money-bags as bold, As men with sand-bags did of old; Puts lands, and tenements, and stocks, Into a paltry juggler's box;
And, like an alderman of Gotham,. Embarketh in so vile a bottom; Engages blind and senseless hap
'Gainst high, and low, and slur, and knap, (As Tartars with a man of straw Fncounter lions hand to paw) With those that never venture more Than they had safely ensur'd before; Who, when they knock the box, and shake, Do, like the Indian rattlesnake,
But strive to ruin and destroy Those, that mistake it for fair play; That have their fulhams at command, Brought up to do their feats at hand; That understand their calls and knocks, And how to place themselves i' th' box; Can tell the oddses of all games, And when to answer to their names; And, when he conjures them t' appear, Like imps, are ready every where; When to play foul, and when run fair (Out of design) upon the square, And let the greedy cully win, Only to draw him further in; While those with which he idly plays Have no regard to what he says, Although he jernie and blaspheme, When they miscarry, Heaven and them, And damn his soul, and swear, and curse, And crucify his Saviour worse
Than those Jew-troopers, that threw out, When they were raffling for his coat; Denounce revenge, as if they heard, And rightly understood and fear'd, And would take heed another time, How to commit so bold a crime; When the poor bones are innocent Of all he did, or said, or meant, And have as little sense, almost, As he that damns them when he 'as lost; As if he had rely'd upon
Their judgment rather than his own; And that it were their fault, not his, That manag'd them himself amiss, And gave them ill instructions how To run, as he would have them do, And then condemns them sillily For having no more wit than he!
SATIRE TO A BAD POET
GREAT famous wit! whose rich and easy vein, Free, and unus'd to drudgery and pain, Has all Apollo's treasure at command,
And how good verse is coin'd do'st understand;
In all Wit's combats master of defence!
Tell me, how dost thou pass on Rhyme and Sense? "Tis said they apply to thee, and in thy verse Do freely range themselves as volunteers, And without pain, or pumping for a word, Place themselves fitly of their own accord. I, whom a loud caprich (for some great crime
I have committed) has condemned to rhyme, With slavish obstinacy vex my brain
To reconcile them, but, alas! in vain. Sometimes I set my wits upon the rack,
And, when I would say white, the verse says black; When I would draw a brave man to the life,
It names some slave, that pimps to his own wife, Or base poltroon, that would have sold his daughter, If he had met with any to have bought her; When I would praise an author, the untoward Damn'd sense says Virgil, but the rhyme- In fine, whate'er I strive to bring about, The contrary (spite of my heart) comes out. Sometimes, enrag'd for time and pains mispent, I give it over, tir'd, and discontent,
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