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HUDIBRAS' SWORD AND DAGGER.

From "Hudibras.”

BY SAMUEL BUTLER.

[SAMUEL BUTLER was born at Strensham, in Worcestershire, in 1612, and was educated either at Cambridge or Oxford; it is uncertain which. After leaving the university, he became clerk to a justice of the peace; and then amanuensis to Selden. He next resided with Sir Samuel Luke, one of Cromwell's principal officers, a zealous Puritan. This position, by making him acquainted with the leading characters of the Puritan party, enabled him to write "Hudibras," of which Sir Luke is undoubtedly the hero. After the Restoration, he was made Steward of Ludlow Castle; but he died in poverty in London, in 1680, and was buried in the churchyard of St. Paul's, Covent Garden. A monument

was erected to him in Westminster Abbey, in 1721. He found a model for "Hudibras," in "Don Quixote;" but the humour it contains is entirely his own. It is probable that some annoyances which he may have received from the Puritans embittered him against them. Charles II. was greatly delighted with the poem; and its author was promised a place--which, however, he never obtained. He received, indeed, three hundred pounds; but as he was greatly involved in debt, it was of little use to him. "Hudibras was never finished; but this is scarcely to be regretted, as it actually palls by its wit, so as almost to become tiresome.]

His puissant sword unto his side
Near his undaunted heart was tied,
With basket hilt that would hold broth,
And serve for fight and dinner both.

In it he melted lead for bullets

To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets,

To whom he bore so fell a grutch,

He ne'er gave quarter to any such.

G G

The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty,

For want of fighting was grown rusty,
And ate into itself, for lack

Of somebody to hew and hack.
The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt,
The rancour of its edge had felt;
For of the lower end two handful

It had devour'd, it was so manful;
And so much scorn'd to lurk in case,
As if it durst not show its face.

*

This sword a dagger had, his page, That was but little for his age,

And therefore waited on him so

As dwarfs upon knight-errants do.
It was a serviceable dudgeon,
Either for fighting or for drudging.
When it had stabb'd or broke a head,

It would scrape trenchers or chip bread,
Toast cheese or bacon, tho' it were

To bait a mouse-trap 'twould not care;
'Twould make clean shoes, and in the earth

Set leeks and onions, and so forth:

It had been 'prentice to a brewer,
Where this and more it did endure;
But left the trade, as many more
Have lately done on the same score.

"VULCAN, CONTRIVE ME SUCH A CUP."

BY JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER.

[JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER, was born at Dichley, in Oxfordshire, in 1647. At twelve years of age he was sent to the University of Oxford, and on leaving it travelled on the Continent. He returned to England, in his eighteenth year, and was soon afterwards made Gentleman of the Bedchamber to the King, and Comptroller of Woodstock Park. He went to sea with the Earl of Sandwich, in 1665, and greatly distinguished himself by his gallantry; but his subsequent life was disgraced by a dissipation that brought on a decline, of which he died in 1680. Rochester was remarkable for wit and good nature; his poems are in accordance with his morals and conduct, and cause us to regret that his great powers should have been devoted to folly.]

VULCAN, contrive me such a cup

As Nestor used of old;

Show all thy skill to trim it up,

Damask it round with gold.

Make it so large, that, fill'd with sack
Up to the swelling brim,

Vast toasts on the delicious lake,

Like ships at sea, may swim.

Engrave not battle on his cheek;
With war I've nought to do;
I'm none of those that took Mæstrick,
Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew.

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But carve thereon a spreading vine; Then add two lovely boys;

Their limbs in am'rous folds entwine,

The type of future joys.

Cupid and Bacchus my saints are,

May drink and love still reign!
With wine I wash away my cares,
And then to love again.

MY DEAR MISTRESS.

EARL OF ROCHESTER.

My dear mistress has a heart

Soft as those kind looks she gave me,

When, with love's resistless art,

And her eyes, she did enslave me.

But her constancy's so weak,

She's so wild and apt to wander,

That my jealous heart would break,
Should we live one day asunder.

Melting joys about her move,

Killing pleasures, wounding blisses :

She can dress her eyes in love,

And her lips can warm with kisses.

Angels listen when she speaks,

She's my delight, all mankind's wonder;

But my jealous heart would break,

Should we live one day asunder.

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