Hudibras by Samuel Butler (simple e reader .TXT) đź“•
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The knight-errant Hudibras and his trusty (and somewhat more grounded) squire Ralph roam the land in search of adventure and love. Never the most congenial of partners, their constant arguments are Samuel Butler’s satire of the major issues of the day in late 17th century Britain, including the recent civil war, religious sectarianism, philosophy, astrology, and even the differing rights of women and men.
Butler had originally studied to be a lawyer (which explains some of the detail in the third part of Hudibras), but made a living variously as a clerk, part-time painter, and secretary before dedicating himself to writing in 1662. Hudibras was immediately popular on the release of its first part, and, like Don Quixote, even had an unauthorized second part available before Butler had finished the genuine one. Voltaire praised the humor, and although Samuel Pepys wasn’t immediately taken with the poem, it was such the rage that he noted in his diary that he’d repurchased it to see again what the fuss was about. Hudibras’s popularity did not fade for many years, and although some of the finer detail of 17th century talking points might be lost on the modern reader, the wit of the caricatures (and a large collection of endnotes) help bring this story to life.
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- Author: Samuel Butler
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The trophy-fiddle and the case,
Leaning on shoulder like a mace.
The Knight himself did after ride,
Leading Crowdero by his side;
And tow’d him, if he lagg’d behind,
Like boat against the tide and wind.
Thus grave and solemn they march’d on
Until quite thro’ the town th’ had gone;
At further end of which there stands
An ancient castle, that commands
Th’ adjacent parts: in all the fabric
You shall not see one stone nor a brick:
But all of wood; by pow’rful spell
Of magic made impregnable.
There’s neither iron-bar nor gate,
Portcullis, chain, nor bolt, nor grate,
And yet men durance there abide,
In dungeon scarce three inches wide;
With roof so low, that under it
They never stand, but lie or sit;
And yet so foul, that whoso ’s in,
Is to the middle-leg in prison;
In circle magical confin’d,
With walls of subtle air and wind,
Which none are able to break thorough,
Until they’re freed by head of borough.
Thither arriv’d, th’ advent’rous Knight
And bold Squire from their steeds alight
At th’ outward wall, near which there stands
A bastile, built to imprison hands;
By strange enchantment made to fetter
The lesser parts and free the greater;
For though the body may creep through,
The hands in grate are fast enough:
And when a circle ’bout the wrist
Is made by beadle exorcist,
The body feels the spur and switch,
As if ’twere ridden post by witch
At twenty miles an hour pace,
And yet ne’er stirs out of the place.
On top of this there is a spire,
On which Sir Knight first bids the Squire
The fiddle and its spoils, the case,
In manner of a trophy place.
That done, they ope the trap-door gate,
And let Crowdero down thereat;
Crowdero making doleful face,
Like hermit poor in pensive place.
To dungeon they the wretch commit,
And the survivor of his feet:
But th’ other, that had broke the peace
And head of knighthood, they release;
Though a delinquent false and forged,
Yet, being a stranger he’s enlarged,
While his comrade, that did no hurt,
Is clapp’d up fast in prison for’t.
So Justice, while she winks at crimes,
Stumbles on innocence sometimes. Canto III
The scatter’d rout return and rally,
Surround the place; the Knight does sally,
And is made pris’ner: then they seize
Th’ enchanted fort by storm, release
Crowdero, and put th’ Squire in’s place;
I should have first said Hudibras.
Ah me! what perils do environ
The man that meddles with cold iron;
What plaguy mischiefs and mishaps
Do dog him still with after-claps!
For though dame Fortune seem to smile
And leer upon him for a while,
She’ll after show him, in the nick
Of all his glories, a dog-trick.
This any man may sing or say,
I’ th’ ditty call’d, What if a Day?
For Hudibras, who thought h’ had won
The field, as certain as a gun;
And having routed the whole troop,
With victory was cock-a-hoop;
Thinking h’ had done enough to purchase
Thanksgiving-day among the churches,
Wherein his mettle, and brave worth,
Might be explain’d by Holder-forth,
And register’d, by fame eternal,
In deathless pages of diurnal;
Found in few minutes, to his cost,
He did but count without his host;
And that a turnstile is more certain
Than, in events of war, dame Fortune.
For now the late faint-hearted rout,
O’erthrown, and scatter’d round about,
Chas’d by the horror of their fear,
From bloody fray of Knight and Bear
(All but the dogs, who, in pursuit
Of the Knight’s victory, stood to’t,
And most ignobly fought to get
The honour of his blood and sweat.)
Seeing the coast was free and clear
O’ th’ conquer’d and the conqueror,
Took heart again, and fac’d about,
As if they meant to stand it out:
For by this time the routed Bear,
Attack’d by th’ enemy i’ th’ rear,
Finding their number grew too great
For him to make a safe retreat,
Like a bold chieftain, fac’d about;
But wisely doubting to hold out,
Gave way to fortune, and with haste
Fac’d the proud foe, and fled, and fac’d;
Retiring still, until he found
H’ had got the advantage of the ground;
And then as valiantly made head
To check the foe, and forthwith fled;
Leaving no art untry’d, nor trick
Of warrior stout and politic,
Until, in spite of hot pursuit,
He gain’d a pass, to hold dispute
On better terms, and stop the course
Of the proud foe. With all his force
He bravely charg’d, and for a while
Forc’d their whole body to recoil;
But still their numbers so increas’d,
He found himself at length oppress’d;
And all evasions so uncertain,
To save himself for better fortune,
That he resolv’d, rather than yield,
To die with honour in the field,
And sell his hide and carcase at
A price as high and desperate
As e’er he could. This resolution
He forthwith put in execution,
And bravely threw himself among
The enemy i’ th’ greatest throng;
But what could single valour do
Against so numerous a foe?
Yet much he did, indeed too much
To be believ’d, where th’ odds were such.
But one against a multitude
Is more than mortal can make good:
For while one party he oppos’d,
His rear was suddenly inclosed;
And no room left him for retreat,
Or fight against a foe so great.
For now the mastiffs, charging home,
To blows and handy gripes were come:
While manfully himself he bore,
And setting his right foot before,
He rais’d himself, to show how tall
His person was above them all.
This equal shame and envy stirr’d
In th’ enemy, that one should beard
So many warriors, and so stout,
As he had done, and stav’d it out,
Disdaining to lay down his arms,
And yield on honourable terms.
Enraged thus, some in the rear
Attack’d him, and some ev’ry where,
Till down he fell; yet falling fought,
And, being down, still laid about;
As Widdrington, in doleful dumps,
Is said to light upon his stumps.
But all, alas! had been in vain,
And he inevitably slain,
If Trulla and Cerdon, in the nick,
To rescue him had not been quick;
For Trulla, who was light of foot
As shafts which long-field Parthians shoot,
(But not so light as to be borne
Upon the ears of standing corn,
Or trip it o’er the water quicker
Than witches, when their staves they liquor,
As some report,) was got among
The foremost of the martial throng:
There pitying the vanquish’d bear,
She call’d to Cerdon, who stood near,
Viewing the bloody fight; to whom,
Shall we (quoth she) stand still hum-drum,
And see stout Bruin all alone,
By numbers basely overthrown?
Such feats already h’ has achiev’d,
In story not to be believed;
And ’twould to us be shame enough,
Not to attempt to fetch him off.
I would (quoth he) venture a limb
To second thee, and rescue him;
But then
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