428
HUDIBRAS.
[EPISTLE TO
Then how can anything offend,
In order to so great an end? 120
Or heav'n itself a sin resent,
That for its own supply was meant?[1]
That merits, in a kind mistake,
A pardon for th' offence's sake?
Or if it did not, but the cause 125
Were left to th' injury of laws,
What tyranny can disapprove,
There should be equity in love?
For laws, that are inanimate,
And feel no sense of love or hate,[2] 130
That have no passion of their own,
Nor pity to be wrought upon,
Are only proper to inflict
Revenge on criminals as strict.
But to have power to forgive, 135
Is empire and prerogative;
And 'tis in crowns a nobler gem
To grant a pardon than condemn.
Then, since so few do what they ought,
'Tis great t' indulge a well-meant fault; 140
For why should he who made address,
All humble ways, without success;
And met with nothing in return
But insolence, affronts, and scorn.
Not strive by wit to counter-mine, 145
And bravely carry his design?
He who was us'd s' unlike a soldier.
Blown up with philters of love-powder;
And after letting blood, and purging,
Condemn'd to voluntary scourging; 150
Alarm'd with many a horrid fright,
And claw'd by goblins in the night;
Insulted on, revil'd and jeer'd,
With rude invasion of his beard;
And when your sex was foully scandal'd, 155
As foully by the rabble handled;
In order to so great an end? 120
Or heav'n itself a sin resent,
That for its own supply was meant?[1]
That merits, in a kind mistake,
A pardon for th' offence's sake?
Or if it did not, but the cause 125
Were left to th' injury of laws,
What tyranny can disapprove,
There should be equity in love?
For laws, that are inanimate,
And feel no sense of love or hate,[2] 130
That have no passion of their own,
Nor pity to be wrought upon,
Are only proper to inflict
Revenge on criminals as strict.
But to have power to forgive, 135
Is empire and prerogative;
And 'tis in crowns a nobler gem
To grant a pardon than condemn.
Then, since so few do what they ought,
'Tis great t' indulge a well-meant fault; 140
For why should he who made address,
All humble ways, without success;
And met with nothing in return
But insolence, affronts, and scorn.
Not strive by wit to counter-mine, 145
And bravely carry his design?
He who was us'd s' unlike a soldier.
Blown up with philters of love-powder;
And after letting blood, and purging,
Condemn'd to voluntary scourging; 150
Alarm'd with many a horrid fright,
And claw'd by goblins in the night;
Insulted on, revil'd and jeer'd,
With rude invasion of his beard;
And when your sex was foully scandal'd, 155
As foully by the rabble handled;