Print
Word
PDFAnd your diversion dull dry-bobbing,
T’ entice fanaticks in the dirt,
And wash them clean in ditches for’t;
Of which conceit you are so proud,
At ev’ry jest you laugh aloud, 1420
As now you wou’d have done by me,
But that I barr’d your raillery.
Sir (quoth the voice) y’are no such Sophi
As you would have the world judge of ye.
If you design to weigh our talents
1425
I’ the standard of your own false balance,
Or think it possible to know
Us ghosts as well as we do you;
We, who have been the everlasting
Companions of your drubs and basting,
1430
And never left you in contest,
With male or female, man or beast,
But prov’d as true t’ ye, and entire,
In all adventures, as your Squire.
Quoth he, That may be said as true
1435
By the idlest pug of all your crew:
For none cou’d have betray’d us worse
Than those allies of ours and yours.
But I have sent him for a token
To your Low-Country Hogen-mogen,
1440
To whose infernal shores I hope
He’ll swing like skippers in a rope.
And, if y’ have been more just to me
(As I am apt to think) than he,
I am afraid it is as true,
1445
What th’ ill-affected say of you:
Y’ have spous’d the Covenant and Cause,
By holding up your cloven paws.
Sir, quoth the voice, ’tis true, I grant,
We made and took the Covenant;
1450
But that no more concerns the Cause
Than other perj’ries do the laws,
Which when they’re prov’d in open court,
Wear wooden
And that’s the reason Cov’nanters
1455
Hold up their hands like rogues at bars.
I see, quoth Hudibras, from whence
These scandals of the Saints commence,
That are but natural effects
Of Satan’s malice, and his sects,
1460
Those Spider-Saints, that hang by threads,
Spun out o’ th’ intrails of their heads.
Sir, quoth the voice, that may as true
And properly be said of you,
Whose talents may compare with either,
1465
Or both the other put together.
For all the Independents do,
Is only what you forc’d ’em to;
You, who are not content alone
With tricks to put the Devil down,
1470
But must have armies rais’d to back
The gospel-work you undertake;
As if artillery, and edge-tools,
Were the only engines to save souls;
While he, poor devil, has no pow’r
1475
By force to run down and devour;
Has ne’er a Classis; cannot sentence
To stools or poundage of repentance;
Is ty’d up only to design,
