'Tis virtue, wit, and worth, and all That men divine and sacred call; For what is worth, in anything, But so much money as 't will bring?

This was the penn'worth of his thought.

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.