In mathematics he was greater
Than Tycho Brahe, or Erra Pater:
For he by geometric scale
Could take the seize of pots of ale;
Resolve by sines and tangents straight
If bread or butter wanted weight;
And wisely tell what hour o' the day
The clock doth strike, by algebra.

Beside he was a shrewd philosopher,
And had read every text and gloss over:
Whate'er the crabbed'st author hath
He understood by implicit faith,
Whatever sceptic could inquire for;
For every why he had a wherefore:
Knew more than forty of them do,

Beside he was a shrewd Philosopher,
And had read every text and gloss over:
What e'er the crabbed'st author hath
He understood b'implicit Faith,
What ever Sceptick could inquire for;
For every why he had a wherefore;
Knew more than forty of them do,
As far as words and terms could go.
All which he understood by rote,
And as occasion served, would quote;
No matter whether right or wrong:
They might be either said or sung.
His notions fitted things so well,
That which was which he could not tell;
But oftentimes mistook th' one

The Sun had long since in the Lap
Of Thetis, taken out his Nap,
And like a Lobster boyl'd, the Morn
From black to red began to turn.
When Hudibras, whom thoughts and aching
'Twixt sleeping kept all night, and waking,
Began to rouse his drousie eyes,
And from his Couch prepar'd to rise;
Resolving to dispatch the Deed
He vow'd to do, with trusty speed.
But first, with knocking loud and bawling,
He rous'd the Squire, in Truckle lolling,
And, after many Circumstances,
Which vulgar Authors in Romances,

For what mad lover ever died,
To gain a soft and gentle bride?
Or for a lady tender-hearted,
In purling streams, or hemp departed?
Leap'd headlong int' Elysium
Through th' windows of a dazzling room?
But for some cross, ill-natur'd dame,
The am'rous fly burnt in his flame.

Sir Hudibras his passing worth,
The manner how he sallied forth;
His arms and equipage are shown;
His horse's virtues, and his own.
Th' adventure of the bear and fiddle
Is sung, but breaks off in the middle.

After the eyes that looked, the lips that spake
Here, from the shadows of impending death,
Those words of solemn breath,
What voice may fitly break
The silence, doubly hallowed, left by him?
We can but bow the head, with eyes grown dim,
And, as a Nation's litany, repeat
The phrase his martyrdom hath made complete,
Noble as then, but now more sadly-sweet:
"Let us, the Living, rather dedicate
Ourselves to the unfinished work, which they
Thus far advanced so nobly on its way,
And save the perilled State!

The Gadite men the royal charge obey.
Now fragments, weigh'd up from th' uneven streets,
Leave the ground black beneath; again the sun
Shines into what were porches, and on steps
Once warm with frequentation—clients, friends,
All morning, satchel'd idlers all mid-day,
Lying half-up, and languid, though at games.
Some raise the painted pavement, some on wheels
Draw slow its laminous length, some intersperse
Salt waters thro' the sordid heaps, and seize
The flowers and figures starting fresh to view.
Others rub hard large masses, and essay

'Twas evening, though not sun-set, and springtide
Level with these green meadows, seem'd still higher;
'Twas pleasant: and I loosen'd from my neck
The pipe you gave me, and began to play.
O that I ne'er had learnt the tuneful art!
It always brings us enemies or love!
Well, I was playing--when above the waves
Some swimmer's head methought I saw ascend;
I, sitting still, survey'd it, with my pipe
Awkwardly held before my lips half-clos'd.
Gebir! it was a nymph! a nymph divine!
I cannot wait describing how she came,

Wolves' voices harmonize this snowy evening

On the boulder at the bottom of the water a leaf settles