Samuel Butler (poet)

The sun had long since in the lap Of Thetis taken out his nap, And, like a lobster boil'd, the morn From black to red began to turn.

Love is a boy by poets styl'd; Then spare the rod and spoil the child.

For what is worth in anything But so much money as 't will bring?

Love in your hearts as idly burns As fire in antique Roman urns.

Quoth she, I 've heard old cunning stagers Say fools for arguments use wagers.

No Indian prince has to his palace More followers than a thief to the gallows.

Some have been beaten till they know What wood a cudgel's of by th' blow; Some kick'd until they can feel whether A shoe be Spanish or neat's leather.

Some force whole regions, in despite O' geography, to change their site; Make former times shake hands with latter, And that which was before come after. But those that write in rhyme still make The one verse for the other's sake;

He cou'd foretel whats'ever was By consequence to come to pass; As death of great men, alterations, Diseases, battles, inundations. All this, without th' eclipse o' th' sun, Or dreadful comet, he hath done,

This Light inspires, and plays upon The nose of Saint like Bag-pipe drone, And speaks through hollow empty Soul, As through a Trunk, or whisp'ring hole, Such language as no mortal Ear But spiritual Eve-droppers can hear.

Friend Ralph, thou hast Outrun the constable at last.

When pious frauds and holy shifts Are dispensations and gifts.

If he that in the field is slain Be in the bed of honour lain, He that is beaten may be said To lie in honour's truckle-bed.

Cheer'd up himself with ends of verse And sayings of philosophers.

I am not now in fortune's power: He that is down can fall no lower.

For those that run away and fly, Take place at least o' the enemy.

With mortal crisis doth portend My days to appropinque an end.

While the honour thou hast got Is spick and span new.

These reasons made his mouth to water.

He had got a hurt O' the inside, of a deadlier sort.

I 'll make the fur Fly 'bout the ears of the old cur.

Nor do I know what is become Of him, more than the Pope of Rome.

Who thought he 'd won The field as certain as a gun.

Ay me! what perils do environ The man that meddles with cold iron!