Like men condemned to thunderbolts, Who, ere the blow, become mere dolts.

Quoth Hudibras, I smell a rat; Ralpho, thou dost prevaricate.

For now the field is not far off Where we must give the world a proof Of deeds, not words.

He was in Logic, a great critic, Profoundly skill'd in Analytic; He could distinguish, and divide A hair 'twixt south and south-west side.

The worst of rebels never arm To do their king or country harm, But draw their swords to do them good, As doctors cure by letting blood.

Cheered up himself with ends of verse And sayings of philosophers.