The second part of 'Hudibras' appeared in 1664, and the third and last in 1678.
The Duke of Buckingham was, we are told by Aubrey, well disposed towards Butler, and Wycherley was a constant suitor in his behalf; but the fickle favorite forgot his promises as easily as did the King. Lord Clarendon, who had the witty poet's portrait painted for his library, was no better at promise-keeping. It is natural that such neglect should have provoked the sharp but just satires which Butler wrote against the manners of Charles's dissolute court.
'Hudibras' was never finished; for Butler, who had been confined by his infirmities to his room in Rose Court, Covent Garden, since 1676, died on September 25th, 1680. William Longueville, a devoted friend but for whose kindness the poet might have starved, buried the remains at his own expense in the churchyard of St. Paul's, Covent Garden. In 1721 John Barber, Lord Mayor of London, set up in the Poet's Corner of Westminster Abbey an inscription to Butler's memory, which caused later satirists to suggest that this was giving a stone to him who had asked for bread.
Butler was a plain man of middle stature, strong-set, high-colored, with a head of sorrel hair. He possessed a severe and sound judgment, but was "a good fellow," according to his friend Aubrey.
Many of Butler's writings were not published in his lifetime, during which only the three parts of 'Hudibras' and some trifles appeared. Longueville, who received his papers, left them, unpublished, to his son Charles; from whom they came to John Clarke of Cheshire, by whose permission the 'Genuine Remains' in two volumes were published in 1759. The title of this book is due to the fact that poor Butler, as is usual with his kind, became very popular immediately after his death, and the ghouls of literature supplied the book-shops with forgeries. Butler's manuscripts, many of which have never been published, were placed in the British Museum in 1885.
HUDIBRAS DESCRIBED
When civil fury first grew high,
And men fell out, they knew not why;
When hard words, jealousies, and fears
Set folks together by the ears,
And made them fight, like mad or drunk,
For dame Religion as for Punk,
Whose honesty they all durst swear for,
Tho' not a man of them knew wherefore;
When Gospel-Trumpeter, surrounded
With long-ear'd rout, to battle sounded,
And pulpit, drum ecclesiastick,
Was beat with fist, instead of a stick;
Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling,
And out he rode a-colonelling.
A Wight he was, whose very sight would
Entitle him Mirror of Knighthood,
That never bent his stubborn knee
To anything but chivalry;
Nor put up blow, but that which laid
Right worshipful on shoulder-blade;
Chief of domestic knights, and errant,
Either for chartel or for warrant;
Great on the bench, great in the saddle,
That could as well bind o'er, as swaddle:
Mighty he was at both of these,
And styl'd of War as well as Peace.
So some rats of amphibious nature
Are either for the land or water.
But here our authors make a doubt,
Whether he were more wise, or stout.
Some hold the one, and some the other;
But howsoe'er they make a pother,
The diff'rence was so small, his brain
Outweigh'd his rage but half a grain;
Which made some take him for a tool
That knaves do work with, call'd a Fool;
And offer'd to lay wagers that
As Montaigne, playing with his cat,
Complains she thought him but an ass,
Much more she wou'd Sir Hudibras:
For that's the name our valiant knight
To all his challenges did write.
But they're mistaken very much;
'Tis plain enough he was no such:
We grant, although he had much wit,
H' was very shy of using it,
As being loth to wear it out;
And therefore bore it not about,
Unless on holy-days, or so,
As men their best apparel do.