She that with poetry is won, Is but a desk to write upon; And what men say of her they mean No more than on the thing they lean.

He that will win his dame must do As love does when he draws his bow; With one hand thrust the lady from, And with the other pull her home.

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.