Affirm the Trigons chop'd and cliang'd,
The Watry with the Fiery rang'd;
Then how can their Effects ftill hold
To be the fame they were of old?
This, though the Art were true, would make
Our Modern Soothsayers mistake

And is one cause they tell more Lies,
In Figures, and Nativities,

Than th' old Chaldean Conjurers,
In fo many hundred thousand Years;
Befide their Nonfense in tranflating,
For want of Accidence and Latin,
Like İdus and Calenda, Englifht
The Quarter-Days by skilful Linguist;
And yet with Canting, Slight, and Cheat,
"Twill ferve their turn to do the Feat:
Make Fools believe in their foreseeing
Of things before they are in Being;
To fwallow Gudgeons e'er th' are catch'd,
And count their Chickens, e'er th' hatch'd;
Make them the Conftellations prompt,
And give 'em back their own Accompt;
I i

But

But ftill the best to him that gives
The best Price for't, or beft believes.

Some Towns and Cities, fome for Brevity,
Have caft the 'verfal World's Nativity;
And made the Infant-Stars confefs,

Like Fools or Children, what they please:
Some calculate the hidden Fates

Of Monkeys, Puppy-Dogs, and Cats
Some Running-Nags, and Fighting Cocks,
Some Love, Trade, Law-Suits, and the Pox
Some take a Measure of the Lives
Of Fathers, Mothers, Husbands, Wives;
Make Oppofition, Trine, and Quartile,
Tell who is Barren, and who Fertile ;
As if the Planet's first Afpect

The tender Infant did infect

In Soul and Body, and inftill
All future Good, and future Ill:
Which in their dark Fatal'ties lurking,
At deftin'd Periods fall a working;
And break, out like the hidden Seeds
Of long Difeafes, into Deeds,

In Friendships, Enmities, and Strife,
And all th' Emergencies of Life:
No fooner does he peep into

The World, but he has done his doe,
Catch'd all Diseases, took all Phyfick
That cures or kills a Man that is fick
Marry'd his punctual Dofe of Wives,
Is Cuckolded, and breaks, or thrives.
There's but the twinkling of a Star
Between a Man of Peace and War;
A Thief and fuftice, Fool and Knave,
A huffing Officer and a Slave.

A crafty Lawyer and Pick-pocket,
A great Philofopher and a Block-head;
A formal Preacher and a Player,
A Learn'd Phyfician and Manflayer:
As if Men from the Stars did fuck
Old-Age, Difeafes, and Ill-luck,
Wit, Folly, Honour, Virtue, Vice,
Trade, Travel, Women, Claps, and Dice;
And draw with the firft Air they breath

Battel and Murther, fudden Death.

Are not thefe fine Commodities,
To be imported from the Skies,
And vended here among the Rabble,
For Staple Goods, and warrantable;
Like Money by the Druids borrow'd,
In t'other World to be reftor'd ?
Quoth Sidrophel, Tolet you know
the Art, and Artists too,

You wrong

Since Arguments are loft on thofe
That do our Principles oppofe;
I will (although I've don't before)
Demonftrate to your Senfe once more,
And draw a Figure that fhall tell you,
What you perhaps forget, befel you,
By way of Horary infpection,

Which fome account our worst Erection

With that he Circles draws, and Squares,
With Cyphers, Aftral Characters;
Then looks 'em o'er to understand 'em,
Although fet down Hab-nab, at random.

Quoth he, This Scheme o' th' Heavens fet, Discovers how in fight you met

At

At Kingston with a May-Pole-Idol,

(well;

And that y' were bang'd both Back and Side

And though you overcame the Bear,

The Dogs beat you at Brentford Fair 5
Where sturdy Butchers broke your Noddle,
And handled you like a Fop-doodle.

Quoth Hudibras, I now perceive

You are no Conj'rer, by your

That Palt'ry Story is untrue,

leave;

And forg'd to cheat fuch Gulls as you.

Not true, Quoth he? how e'er you vapour, I can what I affirm, make appear; Whachum fhall juftifie 't t' your Face,

And prove he was upon the place:
He play'd the Saltinbancho's Part,
Transform'd t'a Frenchman by my Art ;

He ftole your Cloak, and pick'd your Pocket,
Chows'd and Caldes'd ye like a Blockhead,
And what
you loft I can produce,

If you deny it, here i'th' Houfe.