Quoth Hudibras, Make that appear,
And I shall credit whatsoe’er
You tell me after on your word, 555
Howe’er unlikely, or absurd.

You are in love, Sir, with a widow,
Quoth he, that does not greatly heed you,
And for three years has rid your wit
And passion without drawing bit:  560
And now your bus’ness is to know,
If you shall carry her or no.

Quoth Hudibras, You’re in the right;
But how the Devil you came by’t
I can’t imagine; for the Stars, 565
I’m sure, can tell no more than a horse;
Nor can their aspects (though you pore
Your eyes out on ’em) tell you more
Than th’ oracle of sieve and sheers,
That turns as certain as the spheres:  570
But if the Devil’s of your counsel,
Much may be done my noble Donzel;
And ’tis on his account I come,
To know from you my fatal doom.

Quoth Sidrophel, If you Suppose, 575
Sir Knight, that I am one of those,
I might suspect, and take the alarm,
Your bus’ness is but to inform;
But if it be, ’tis ne’er the near;
You have a wrong sow by the ear; 580
For I assure you, for my part,
I only deal by rules of art,
Such as are lawful, and judge by
Conclusions of Astrology: 
But for the Dev’l, know nothing by him; 585
But only this, that I defy him.

Quoth he, Whatever others deem ye,
I understand your metonymy: 
Your words of second-hand intention,
When things by wrongful names you mention; 590
The mystick sense of all your terms,
That are, indeed, but magick charms
To raise the Devil, and mean one thing,
And that is down-right conjuring;
And in itself more warrantable, 595
Than cheat, or canting to a rabble,
Or putting tricks upon the Moon,
Which by confed’racy are done. 
Your ancient conjurers were wont
To make her from her sphere dismount. 600
And to their incantations stoop: 
They scorn’d to pore thro’ telescope,
Or idly play at bo-peep with her,
To find out cloudy or fair weather,
Which ev’ry almanack can tell, 605
Perhaps, as learnedly and well,
As you yourself —­ Then, friend, I doubt
You go the furthest way about.
Your modern Indian magician
Makes but a hole in th’ earth to piss in, 610
And straight resolves all questions by’t,
And seldom fails to be i’th’ right. 
The Rosy-Crucian way’s more sure
To bring the Devil to the lure;
Each of ’em has a sev’ral gin 615
To catch intelligences in. 
Some by the nose with fumes trepan ’em,
As Dunstan did the Devil’s grannam;