ANSWER.]
HUDIBRAS.
447
Are magistrates in all great towns,
Where men do nothing but wear gowns. 310
We make the man of war strike sail,[1]
And to our braver conduct veil,
And, when he's chas'd his enemies,
Submit to us upon his knees.
Is there an officer of state, 315
Untimely rais'd, or magistrate,
That's haughty and imperious?
He's but a journeyman to us,
That, as he gives us cause to do't,
Can keep him in, or turn him out. 320
We are your guardians, that increase
Or waste your fortunes how we please;
And, as you humour us, can deal
In all your matters, ill or well.
'Tis we that can dispose alone, 325
Whether your heirs shall be your own;
To whose integrity you must,
In spite of all your caution, trust;
And 'less you fly beyond the seas,
Can fit you with what heirs we please;[2] 330
And force you t' own them, tho' begotten
By French valets, or Irish footmen.
Nor can the rigorousest course
Prevail, unless to make us worse;
Who still, the harsher we are us'd, 335
Are further off from b'iug reduc'd;
And scorn t' abate, for any ills,
The least punctilio of our wills.
Force does but whet our wits t' apply
Arts, born with us, for remedy, 340
Which all your politics, as yet,
Have ne'er been able to defeat:
For, when ye 've try'd all sorts of ways,
What fools d' we make of you in plays?
Where men do nothing but wear gowns. 310
We make the man of war strike sail,[1]
And to our braver conduct veil,
And, when he's chas'd his enemies,
Submit to us upon his knees.
Is there an officer of state, 315
Untimely rais'd, or magistrate,
That's haughty and imperious?
He's but a journeyman to us,
That, as he gives us cause to do't,
Can keep him in, or turn him out. 320
We are your guardians, that increase
Or waste your fortunes how we please;
And, as you humour us, can deal
In all your matters, ill or well.
'Tis we that can dispose alone, 325
Whether your heirs shall be your own;
To whose integrity you must,
In spite of all your caution, trust;
And 'less you fly beyond the seas,
Can fit you with what heirs we please;[2] 330
And force you t' own them, tho' begotten
By French valets, or Irish footmen.
Nor can the rigorousest course
Prevail, unless to make us worse;
Who still, the harsher we are us'd, 335
Are further off from b'iug reduc'd;
And scorn t' abate, for any ills,
The least punctilio of our wills.
Force does but whet our wits t' apply
Arts, born with us, for remedy, 340
Which all your politics, as yet,
Have ne'er been able to defeat:
For, when ye 've try'd all sorts of ways,
What fools d' we make of you in plays?
