And, when he chanc'd t' escape, mistook For art and subtlety his luck. So right his judgment was cut fit, 395 And both together most profound, At deeds of darkness under ground; By vermin impotent and blind. 400 O' th' compass in their bones and joints, 410 Can by their crimes prognosticate, And in their consciences feel pain Some days before a show'r of rain : 415 All ways he could t' insure his throat, And hither came t' observe and smoke What courses other riskers took, And to the utmost do his best To save himself and hang the rest. To match this Saint there was another, As busy and perverse a Brother, An haberdasher of small wares, In politics and state affairs ; More Jew than Rabbi Achitophel, And better gifted to rebel; For when h' had taught his tribe to 'spouse The Cause aloft upon one house, He scorn'd to set his own in order, 425 But try'd another, and went further; 430 So suddenly addicted still To 's only principle, his will, That whatsoe'er it chanc'd to prove, Nor force of argument could move, Nor law, nor cavalcade of Ho'burn, Could render half a grain less stubborn ; For he at any time would hang For th' opportunity t' harangue; And rather on a gibbet dangle 435 Than miss his dear delight, to wrangle; 440 In which his parts were so accomplisht, That, right or wrong, he ne'er was nonplust; Against the desp'ratest assaults, And back'd their feeble want of sense With greater heat and confidence ; As bones of Hectors, when they differ, The more they're cudgell'd grow the stiffer, Yet when his profit moderated, The fury of his heat abated; 460 For nothing but his interest 465 Could lay his devil of contest: It was his choice, or chance, or curse, T' espouse the Cause for better or worse, 470 and claps, inc The Trojan mare, in foal with Greeks, Not half so full of jadish tricks, Though squeamish in her outward woman, 475 As loose and rampant as Doll Common, After a discontented pause, And not without sufficient cause, 480 485 To give himself first audience, At last broke silence and the ice. Quoth he, There's nothing makes me doubt 495 Our last Outgoings brought about, More than to see the characters Of real jealousies and fears, Not feign'd, as once, but sadly horrid, Who, cause the clouds are drawn together, Feel pangs and aches of state-turns, And revolutions in their corns; 500 And, since our Workings-out are crost, 505 Throw up the Cause before 'tis lost. Was it to run away we meant, The lamest cripples of the Brothers Took oaths to run before all others, 510 |