University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet

Being Sixty and three in Number. Collected into one Volume by the Author [i.e. John Taylor]: With sundry new Additions, corrected, reuised, and newly Imprinted

collapse section 
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
To my worthy and well-deseruing friend, our wel-known hydropoet, Iohn Taylor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
  
expand section 
expand section 
  
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
  
expand section 
  
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 



To my worthy and well-deseruing friend, our wel-known hydropoet, Iohn Taylor.

Some till their throats ake cry alowd and hollo
To aucupate great fauors from Apollo.
One Bacchus and some other Venus vrges,
To blesse their brain-brats. Those cœrulean surges,
Gyrdling the earth, emball thy nerues, and season
Those animall parts, quiek Organs of mans reason.
This Nimph-adored fountaine farre excells,
Aganipe Aon; all that Bubulkes wells.
These daunst about thy Quinbro-boate to kisse thee,
And often since roare out because they misse thee.
These wyned with loue-sicke Thame the banks o'rswel
To visit their ingenious darlings Cell.
Blue Neptunes salt tempred with Thames sweet water,
Make thee both tart and pleasing. What theater
Of late; could Cinthius, halfe staru'd mists perswade
T' applaud; nay not to hisse at what they made?
Then call on Neptune still; let Delos sinke
Or swimme; for thee let Phœbus looke, or winke
VVhilst his poore Priests grow mad with ill successe:
That still the more they write they please the lesse.
Thine Amphitritean Muse growes more arrident,
And Phœbus tripos, stoopes to Neptunes trident.
R. H.